Perpetuum Mobile
by TheBookshelfDweller
Summary: "Every story has a beginning and an ending, right? Not this one. This story is different. It's a story about clocks and chemistry and caring, about exhilarating horizontal falls. It's their story." When a fresh batch of brilliant murders occurs, Sherlock and John have to re-examine their relationship, as they battle ticking clocks. What will become of them? Who will win the battle?
1. On swift legs, run to the non-beginning

**Author's note: Well, here it is - another multichapter :)**

**I seem to be covering the ABC-s of Sherlock fanfiction, so after writing a reunion piece, I now wanted to try my hand at something resembling a case-fic, although the case serves as a plot device for investigating character relationships, really.**

**I have to mention that this story takes place somewhere between HoB and TRF, timewise, just so the references to the series don't become confusing.**

**There will be 11 chapters in total (unless there is an unexpected last-minute addition somewhere along the way) and the story will be updated every two days, seeing as my real-life obligations make it a bit impractical for me to update it every day.**

**The title means "perpetual motion" - it will make sense by the end, promise :)**

**I'm runnng out of imaginative ways to disclaim things that are not mine to brag about, so just consider it all disclaimed :)**

**For those who prefer complete suspence, I suggest you skip right to the fic now, as what follows might spoil that suspence a bit.**  
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**Ok, so, this will have a happy ending, depite all the angst, so don't lose heart, no matter how gloomy things may see at times. Also, there will be Johnlock, but nothing explicit, as usual.**

**Well, that's it from me, for now.**

**Enjoy your reading! :)**

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**Chapter 1: On swift legs, run to a non-beginning**

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Have you ever run so fast that you felt as if, after a while, you were being propelled simply by the gained momentum, no longer truly in control of your movements? Like a roll of film being endlessly spun over a source of light, you are an image, running, running, running. It's the most astonishing feeling, once you free yourself of the aching of the muscles and the piercing in the lungs. When you run like that, in perpetual motion, every moment is a threefold, because every step is already the beginning of the next and the ending of the previous one, while all the time being just itself. When you run like that, being carried through space by a force that is no longer completely internal, you are travelling through time, while staying in all three of its dimensions. The faster you go, the slower the time flows. You are in the past, in the present, and in the future, simultaneously. You are running, and time is standing still. It feels like horizontal falling – _exhilarating._

Have you ever run like that? Have you ever felt like that? If you have – good, then you know what I'm talking about.

Now forget it.

Forget it, because death feels nothing like that.

But I'm getting ahead of myself; I'm trying to tell a story from the middle. That won't do. Let's go to the beginning, then.

* * *

Well, when I say _beginning_... Truth is, when you come into a story, it is never the _actual_ beginning. It might seem like one, it might seem as if there was no story before this point, but there was – there always is. Stories are like cells, born out of pre-existing stories just like cells are always born out of pre-existing cells. So, even though it might seem as if you are at the beginning, the truth is that beginnings are simply points in the story that make for good moments for you to enter it. Turning points in the plot, introduction of a new character, change of setting – all of these are simply devices which make a place in a story seem like a good place to start telling it as a new, separate story.

So, that's really what this is – where I'm taking you – a good point in a larger story, _their _story, which can serve as the start line for this story I am entrusted with telling you. Their story has been happening for some time now, and what I am about to tell you is just an excerpt. Well...maybe not _just_ an excerpt. A rather important one, actually. If you are wondering what makes this particular part of the story a good place at which to start, then I guess it is a legitimate inquiry. There are several things, but most prominent ones are clocks, chemistry and caring. And running, I must not forget running, but the three Cs sounded too good together to be broken up by _running_. Moreover, the running is really a product of one of the three Cs (or maybe of all three in combination), so I guess it should be mentioned separately, anyway.

But I am rambling now, and a storyteller must never ramble. That's not why I'm here. So, let's get on with the story, shall we? Clocks, chemistry and caring – let's see where they take us.

* * *

The kitchen clock is the only thing breaking the morning silence, with its rhythmic, even-paced ticking.

It's early October, but the air, seemingly condensing on the other side of flat widows, turning slightly opaque as it thickens into a mist, already smells of snow that morning. What is it about the weather that makes it the eternal go-to topic? Maybe it's the fact that it is always there, always available to be discussed, saving masses from so many awkward silences. Maybe there is something about London that makes one think of the weather... Either way, that's what the weather is like at the beginning-that-isn't-really-one of our story. We take off on a cold, misty October morning that smells of snow. Is it relevant? I don't know yet. It might be. And if it isn't, you can always delete it.

"Sherlock, stop it."

John Watson is genuinely happy. It's not giddiness. It's that sort of bottom line happiness – a sense of contentment at the end of the day. Of course, there are bad moments, and bumps in the proverbial road, and it's not perfection, but when everything is examined and then stripped away, at the core of things there is a steady happiness. It has been, for some time now, because it's John and Sherlock, in their twisted version of domesticity, which consists of banter and mild gore and hazardous material and giggling at the most inappropriate thing, and it's also John and Sherlock in their twisted version of a job, which consists of guns and brilliance and criminals and very high doses of adrenalin. It's not your everyday definition of happiness, and yet, it most definitely is John's.

"John, really, I do think my physical well-being is slightly more relevant than your tea. Seeing as you can easily acquire a new cup, I fail to see why my actions pose such an impassable problem."

Sherlock Holmes is genuinely happy. It's not the run-of-the-mill, there-has-been-a-particularly-ingenious-murder sort of happiness. This happiness runs deeper, and is much less dependent upon the mental faculties of the modern criminal milieu. It tends to run deeper than the case-related highs, deeper than the thrill that comes with that '_Oh!' _of realisation, and even deep enough to cut under the periods of boredom, alleviating them, if only slightly. It's John's happiness. It's Sherlock's – it's _their_ happiness.

"Sherlock, I'm serious- Sherlock, for the love of everything!"

Ah...yes, well. I said there were bumps in the happiness road, albeit minor ones, to be honest. One of such bumps is currently present in form of Sherlock's index finger being submerged in John's tea, only to be treated to the same experience, this time in ice-cold water, a minute later.

"John, you are a doctor, if I recall correctly, so I would expect you to understand the utter importance of establishing whether or not I have any permanent nerve damage in my finger. Sense of pain and tactile experiences are immensely important as both sources of data and warning of danger, in our line of work, so I would consider it a rather pressing matter to reassure myself of their possible unavailability as soon as possible, and not in a potentially dangerous situation."

"And you just had to conduct a hot water immersion test to measure your pain response, using _my tea_?"

"You've used up all the hot water from the kettle, and I have no time to wait for it to boil again. Besides, I have sanitised my hands prior to this, so really, your tea suffered hardly any pollution."

"You are not _actually_ suggesting I drink it _now_?"

"I was hardly suggesting anything. I was simply stating a fact and letting you draw your own conclusions as to what for the fact could be used."

"I'm not drinking that tea Sherlock. And that was the last of it, so you might as well go to the shops and get me some more, before I decide to test your pain threshold myself."

Just as John steels himself for a stare-down, Sherlock's phone gives a soft buzz.

"No time, John. It's Lestrade – we've got a new case."

And just like that, Sherlock is off, tea still dripping off his finger, and John follows after a moment, stopping only long enough to pour out the said liquid into the sink. It's happiness – tea-soaked, with a hint of exasperation on John's part and more than a hint of mania on Sherlock's, but happiness, all the same.

Remember how I told you that one of the things that make a point in a story a good place to start telling it as a new story, is a turning point in the plot? Well, unfortunately for John and Sherlock, they are our ticket into the story, because it is the fact that their steady, bottom-line happiness is about to be disrupted, that makes for our plot turning point.

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**See you on Friday! :)**


	2. The transience of the present tense

**Author's note:**** I won't rant much, just a quick note. Because doesn't allow me to answer reviews of guests who don't have an account, I want to take the opportunity to say a big, great thank you to DonGately, for a truly beautiful review on "Anticlockwise" – it is much appreciated.**

**Well, here is the second chapter...**

**Enojy! :)**

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**Chapter 2: The transience of the present tense**

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The body is bent in a strange way, with arms tied at the wrists and outstretched upwards, while the legs, bound at the ankles, are flipped over the head, feet falling into palms. Five centimetres above the tips of the victim's fingers (and toes, seeing as they are all curled together), there is a small heap of dull-grey metal shavings.

She is young – not older than 20 – delicately built, and in death she seems to posses some sort of cold, eerie elegance. Positioned as she is, and dressed in a simple white jumpsuit, it is easy to imagine that in another life – in _any_ life – she could have been a gymnast or a ballerina. The impression of strange sophistication is further contributed to by the fact that her wrists and ankles are not bound by string or wire, as is usually the case, but a fine-linked chain that looks like it belongs to a jewellery set.

Were it not for the police tape, the flash of the camera capturing everything and the general air of solemnity, the whole scene could have easily been mistaken for some sort of contemporary performance piece. Well...maybe the camera flash would have blended in, but still, it is not a performance...at least not one of an artist.

"The position could indicate some sort of ritualistic killing, although it's too early to tell what. I will need more data in order to rule on that option, though. The metal shavings look like they could be iron – I will need to refresh my knowledge of rituals involving use of metal, in order to connect the position of the body and the iron.

As for the victim, she is twenty, a student – some sort of arts, judging by the crusted paint around her fingernails. There are no external signs of foul play, no petechae or ligature marks that would indicate or suffocation, no bullet or knife wounds, and no bruising around vital organs, which means we will have to wait for the toxicology report to establish cause of death. John, anything you have to add?"

John, who has been standing next to the police tape, listening to Sherlock's soliloquy, walks over to the body.

"Yeah...there's a puncture mark, small, below her ear – it is possible she was injected with some sort of poison...as you said, we'll have to wait for the tox screen to come back to be sure."

Sherlock gives him a curt nod, bent over the victim like an oversized crow.

"She's still just a kid..." John says, as they stand cramped up in the limited space of a storage unit. The storage unit facility that hosts the crime scene is in Northern London, an abandoned one, already giving into the damp and lack of maintenance, with crumbling walls and smell of wet concrete.

"Hardly. In many cultures, including ours only several decades ago, she would already be expected to be married, possibly bearing her first child, by this age. In others, she would have been proclaimed a full-grown woman long before the age of twenty." Sherlock is still fussing over the body, magnifying lens in hand. "Lestrade, have forensics pack some of the metal shavings for me, I need to take them to the lab for analysis."

"What I meant to say was that she is _young_. She still had her whole life waiting for her."

Sherlock turns to John, obviously annoyed by the doctor's refusal to just let the matter lie.

"Yes, and now, she doesn't. I don't see how this is in any way related to finding who robbed her of that opportunity."

"Not everything has to serve the singular purpose of being a piece of a puzzle, Sherlock." John's voice is equal parts tired and angry. He is aware of the futility of having this discussion, _again_, but he isn't ready to let it go. He knows Sherlock, knows the way he operates, and accepts him for what he is – brilliant, but not the most tactful of men. He knows this, and for the most part, it's ok. Sherlock is Sherlock, and John accepts him as such, but this – this careless disregard for a rather important aspect of the way humans function – still bothers him. It's not about changing Sherlock or forcing him to care to make John feel at ease. John knows Sherlock is not casting away caring because of malice – he simply fails to see its importance in the context of his work – but he just wishes Sherlock would stop and think about the way he acts at times, if only so others wouldn't get the wrong impression of him. John knows Sherlock is not heartless, despite the common conviction, and he hates to think others still believe it. That is why he is so annoyed when Sherlock provides them with ample evidence to support this illusion.

Sherlock is just about to reply, frustration radiating off him in a way that makes it almost tangible, when the forensic technician assigned to the case pushes up the police tape and steps into the unit. He is almost as young as the victim, no older than 26, and moving timidly around the space. He smiles a shy smile at John, greeting him with "Hello, good doctor." John smiles back, trying to dispel the tense atmosphere that has crowded into the small chamber in which they stand. Sherlock looks even more irritated than a few moments before, possibly by the young man's twitchy demeanour and rather slow movements. John can't really blame the boy, seeing as he has already been a target of Sherlock's sharp tongue, being proclaimed an incapable idiot during the last case they worked, which happened to be the young tech's first official investigation. Back then, the lad was so in awe of Sherlock, so John knows how much it must have hurt to be humiliated by no other than his idol. In front of all his colleagues. In public. _God, Sherlock..._

"I will need no less than 5 grams of the metal shavings, and once the body is released to the morgue, I will need all that was found on it – chains, clothes, etc. And do try not to mess up again." With that, Sherlock turns and starts walking away from the flustered tech. John just smiles at the young man, and goes after his flatmate.

"Really, Sherlock, it wouldn't kill you to be nice to the boy...or, you know, at least not as vicious. He's not Anderson, he hasn't done anything to you, so just cut him some slack. He's new, it's his first real job."

"And how should that warrant for his incompetence? If anything, it should encourage him to be as meticulous as possible, in order to prove himself."

"Just lay off him, ok?"

Sherlock doesn't grace John with an answer, and John is left feeling deflated and somewhat demoralised. It is a strange sensation – to be disappointed by the most amazing man he's ever met. He tries to squash the bitter feeling, but there are muddy drops polluting that deep-lying pool of happiness that has accumulated in the recent months. Sherlock is many things – amazing, infuriating, mesmerising, inconsiderate, at times – and most of that John can deal with, because that's simply who Sherlock is – flawed and imperfect, just like anyone else. Only, _this_, this eternal stretch of no-man's land that separates them, always manages to put John out, because Sherlock simply fails to see it as a fault. He doesn't see why he should care, about the dead _or_ about most of the living people he encounters, and John can't help but be disappointed, because it means this man, this great man he is so in awe of, most of the time, is still not as good a man as John knows him to be capable of being.

John tries to tell himself it's simply the way Sherlock is, but the issue keeps on coming back, nagging at the edges of his mind, and polluting that deep-running happiness of his. He tries to ignore the ominous feeling that one day, possibly soon, it will start to tear at them at the seams. For now, he settles with scolding Sherlock and hoping that some of his words will find a home in that big head.

* * *

Sherlock does his best to ignore the look of disappointment that arranges the lines of John's face in a way Sherlock finds disconcertingly unpleasant. He doesn't like the fact that he finds the disappointment unpleasant – he shouldn't care about the disappointment at all. In attempt to bar further thoughts of such detrimental nature, Sherlock focuses on the one thing that has always proven a satisfying distraction from all things bothersome – the case.

As they make their way from the crime scene to st. Bart's, he rattles off his deductions.

"The killer incorporated several elements in the murder, which are seemingly unconnected. Judging from the type of iron shavings left, whoever did this probably has access to chemical supplies – whether only basic ones or advanced, is yet to be determined, but that narrows the pool of suspects, to some extent. I am not yet sure what the position of the body means, though. The nature of the metal shavings might shed some light on that. How familiar are you with Middle Eastern traditions and rituals from your days in Afghanistan?"

John seems to startle as Sherlock abruptly turns towards him, expecting an answer.

"Urm, not very. We rarely got the chance to mingle with the locals, unless it was to patch them up. We were taught the basic manners, so not to offend anyone and get in trouble for it."

"Never mind, the likeness that the murderer used such exotic culture as inspiration is minute. Still, we should keep our options open." Sherlock's brisk tone seems to draw John out of whatever troubling reverie he has fallen into, seeing as, by the time they reach the lab, he directs his thoughts back towards the case, much to Sherlock's pleasure.

"I could run a search of metal-related rituals while you analyze the shavings."

"That would be useful."

As Sherlock walks away to look at the sample of metal shavings (which turn out to be iron, just as suspected), he is pleased to notice that the unsettling pang of whatever it was John's disappointment elicited, has simmered down to an almost unnoticeable quiver of discomfort, somewhere at the back of his mind. It is too weak a sensation to pose a serious threat to Sherlock's deep contentment, and he is satisfied to simply ignore it. It should prove to be enough, if only for now.

* * *

What John and Sherlock don't know, but I do, is that _for now_ is not an undefined, indefinite amount of time. Not at all. In reality, _for now_ is exactly 24 days, starting at that moment.

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**Thank you for reading :) See you on Sunday.**


	3. I made rules to guide me, then came you

**Author's note: Good morning! Here's a new chapter :)**

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter 3: I made rules to guide me, but then came you**

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Two days pass until the next victim is found in the same attire, only, this time the position of the body is different. The old woman is found on her left side, with arms stretched over her head towards a pile of iron shavings, and legs stretched out, bent at the hips so that she is almost doubled-over, pointing at a small metal container. Her wrists and ankles are bound by the same sort of chains like the previous victim's. They find her in another storage unit facility, owned by the same bankrupt company, slightly more to the east than the previous one, in a unit marked with number twenty-six.

The container turns out to be full of liquid oxygen, the sort found in oxygen tanks in hospitals. Sherlock's forehead might as well be transparent, because it is that easy for John to see the brilliant machinery of his brain come to life as he incorporates the new data in the existing scheme. They barely have the time to go through all the new reports, when another body is found, again only two days after the last one.

After the third victim (a bald, middle-aged man, placed on his left side, with arms stretched over his head towards a pile of iron shavings, and legs propped at a right angle to his torso and arms, pointing at a pile of aluminium bits), John can tell Sherlock has already figured the whole thing out. When he asks him about it, he is treated to one of Sherlock's rapid lectures.

"Look at it all John, _really_ look", the consulting detective says, waving his hand to indicate the crime scene photos and files strewn across the floor (and the desk, and the sofa). "It's a clock! He is positioning the victims as if they were hands of a clock. The pile over their heads, the one we found when the first victim was discovered – iron shavings – represents 12. That's why it is always present, at each crime scene. Look at the photos – the distance between where each new element is places and where the previous one used was, is always equal, meaning that each consequent element found represents a number - 1, 2, and now 3. He can't use all of them every time, probably due to scarcity of some of them, or their unavailability at the moment of the murder, but if all the photos were blended together, it would be apparent. Even the chains he uses – why use expensive chains like that when ordinary wire would do?"

John just shrugs, waiting for Sherlock to point out the symbolic value of the chains.

"They are watch-chains! The sort used for old-fashioned pocket watches. It all relates to the clock pattern. If my assumption is correct, and it almost always is, there will be twelve victims in total. He is even spacing them out so that in the end the count ends on 24 days – which can be translated into 24 hours of the day, with each victim representing two hours, really – the same time am and pm."

John's gaze flickers over all the photos, capturing the scenes. Now that Sherlock has pointed it out, the pattern seems shockingly apparent.

"So, if you know the pattern, why can't we stop him before he kills someone else? Isn't it always them pattern that gives them away, makes them predictable?"

"Actually, what gives them away are mistakes, anomalies. Besides, this one is using the pattern as protection – clever, very clever. He is moving so fast that we barely have time to process the new data in order to incorporate it with the old one, thus preventing me from getting one step ahead. It's smart – turning what is usually the source of error into a shield. Brilliant, isn't it? Also, I think there might be another pattern, one the killer may be using to send a message – it's just a theory for now, I need more data. I'll have to see what he leaves on the next one."

John has to admit that they _are_ working at a pace which would be considered quick even for Sherlock, with a new victim cropping up every two days, and the data just flowing in, threatening to flood them. Still, despite Sherlock's very logical explanation, John cannot shake the feeling Sherlock isn't as bothered by the fact that he hasn't stopped the killer yet, as he should be. Sherlock is by no means hiding his..._rapture_...over the ingenuity of the killer's modus operandi, but with every glint of excitement in his eye, John can tell he is one step further away from keeping in mind that these aren't toys (or sources of _more data_) being left for him in dingy storage units, but actual people with families to grieve them and lives that will now never be lived.

When Sherlock looks back down the microscope, muttering excitedly "I wonder which element he will use next", John tries very hard not to clench his fist. He can feel the sharp shards of what was once contentment, but has since turned into something much bitterer, poking at his insides like ragged-edged debris of some ruin.

* * *

If you are lucky, you get to have people in your life who make up the backbone of your world. They stand for most of the things you hold dear, they share similar values and believe in the same rules as you do. They fit those rules. If you are lucky, you get to live a normal life, with people who seem to fit you well enough. It's as much as one could ask for, really.

But, if you are _very_ lucky (or very unlucky – it's all matter of perspective really, but I like to think of myself as an optimist, so let's go with very lucky), you get to meet people who manage to shatter the backbone of your world, only to reveal that it was not really what was holding your world up, in the first place. They become the new pillar, expanding the limits of what was once your world, and making a palace out of a shoebox. They are the exception to your every rule, and yet, they seem to fit you better than anyone who was ever within the rules' scope. If you are very, ridiculously lucky, you get to live an extraordinary life, with people who don't fit anywhere and yet, are the best match you could have ever hoped for.

* * *

John is a man whose whole life has been branded by oaths, vows, rules. As a doctor and a soldier, he is familiar with order, understands the importance of rules. Firm morals – that's what he is made of, that's what he appreciates in others. John has always found himself attracted to people similar to himself, as is only normal. His friends – doctors, soldiers – and the women he found interesting, were always people who shared John's view of the world. Caring, warm people. Caring, warm, _ordinary_ people. It was a rule – not a strict, written one, but an implicit one that John felt helped him through life, making choices easier when times were hard.

And then came Sherlock.

Sherlock with his quick-silver tongue. Sherlock with his fortune-cookie guesses, which are (almost) always correct. Sherlock with a smiley face on the wall. Sherlock with his chaos and abandon. Sherlock with his inappropriate tendency to fall just a bit in love with exquisite murderers – or, to be precise, with their minds.

Sherlock came into John's life, carrying suitcases packed tight with rhapsodies and disarray, which spilled over John's rules and oaths, and created a lovely anarchy out of what was once John's ordered life.

Sherlock came in and shattered the backbone of John's world, and John realised he didn't mind. Sherlock became the new central motif that held John's world upright, expanding it, stretching and testing the limits – Sherlock being Sherlock. And John let him, because he knew he would suffocate in the claustrophobic box of his old life, now that he has felt the vastness of this one. He also realised that that was it – he found himself bound to the one exception to his every rule more tightly than he ever was to all the things those rules encompassed.

Because, really, who could ever compare to Sherlock Holmes?

John worries – worries about what it means that he is willing to forgo, if even only partly, some of Sherlock's faults. It's not the little ones, such as arrogance or _spectacular ignorance_ of certain basic facts or even the man's petulance, that make John re-evaluate himself. Everyone has faults, John included, and expecting Sherlock to be flawless would be not only ridiculous, but also hypocritical.

No, what John worries about is the fact that some of the things he always considered vital – empathy, sensitivity to the pain of others – he is now willing to compromise on, when it comes to Sherlock. And still, this doesn't impair the way John views him... how is it possible to find someone who defies so many of your convictions brilliant? Why does he care so much for a man who, in such important ways, doesn't fit the bill of what John considers to be virtues? And, what does it mean that John does care, despite all this? It feels contrary, like a living, breathing paradox. Look at it closely, and you may notice it feels much like Sherlock himself.

As John looks at Sherlock, he wonders how it is possible for an exception to feel so much better than then rule it applies to.

* * *

The victims keep on cropping up, following the schedule flawlessly. Every two days, there is a new body, positioned slightly differently from the previous one, with iron shaving above their arms and a new element at their feet.

After the aluminium bits on the third, the killer leaves some nickel with the fourth victim. The fifth is again found with a metal container, this time filled by liquid nitrogen. Then it's some erbium-doped fibres on the sixth victim found in South London ("_Erbium is used in optical fibres for communication systems, as well as having multiple medical uses in dermatology, dentistry, ophthalmology...really John, you should keep up with the latest research concerning your profession...")_, followed by some foul-smelling sulphur powder on the seventh.

Sherlock behaves as if it is Christmas, his birthday and all the pagan holidays ever celebrated from the dawn of time, all wrapped up together. He is a boundless concoction of energy, and John marvels repeatedly at the ends to which Sherlock can stretch the human need for sustenance and sleep. Through his marvel, he tries to ignore the expectant look on Sherlock's face that dawns on the detective's face every other morning, as he waits for the newest victim to be found. Sherlock has always reacted to murders the way other people would to happy news of weddings or childbirth, but this latest case seems different somehow – Sherlock is no longer just inappropriately excited, he is _eager_, treating the case like a macabre Easter-egg hunt, enjoying the whole thing to the point that John sometimes wonders whether he is really doing all in his power to stop the killer, seeing as the case is so enjoyable, and ending it would certainly mean a round of boredom that could never compare to the present thrill...John admonishes himself for such thoughts only instants after they emerge, but it doesn't help with the sharp edges of his broken happiness that pierce through him more persistently with every new victim. By the time the seventh one is found, John finds himself as conflicted as ever, saying "Brilliant!" to Sherlock (and meaning it. Always meaning it.), while at the same time wondering what the price of such brilliance is.

The body-count doesn't stop at seven, but let's take a break from all the math and chemistry and death. I would much rather revisit the earlier topic of rules and exceptions.

Yes, I think that's what I'll do.

* * *

Sherlock, for one, despises dependency – that of his body on food and sleep, that of his mind on the said body. If it were up to him, his mind would be able to exist as a separate entity from his body. It is rather ironic, really, this contempt of depending on something, considering his past addictions. Sherlock doesn't like dependency, because it stems from need, and need is dangerous. Need can so easily transform into something else, something that cannot be warded off by a round of horrible detox. Need becomes inclination, which becomes affection, which becomes... well, it becomes _something_. It might seem up-side-down to most to need something (or someone) before caring for them. Most people need the ones they care for _because_ they care but then, _most people_ are usually not guided by the rational mind when dealing with such things as need and affection. To Sherlock it makes perfect sense - need ranks the lowest on the scale of both complexity and risk. Needs are usually easily satisfied (sleep, food, drugs, stimulus, assistance, etc.) and require least emotional involvement. Need is relatively harmless, as long as it is kept from developing into something more.

Usually, Sherlock manages to stop everything at the first step – need. He needed the drugs and the nicotine. He needs food and sleep. These are needs which can be managed, and he never lets them progress any further. He never enjoys them (well, the drugs came close) – they are simply tools he uses for his Work, means to an end. Need, but never more. Never inclination or affection. Never that higher _something_ that comes after affection.

It is easy to keep all the things he depends upon at arm's length, seeing as they are precisely that – _things_. Just like he never allows for anything beyond simple need, he makes a rule of not depending on people. That is simply too unpredictable and too messy, in too many ways to count. He will make allowances if they prove convenient – like Lestrade informing him about cases – but he never really depends on them. Those are the rules – nothing more than need, and no dependency on people.

But what are rules, if not just grounds for exceptions? And Sherlock, being the extremist he is, picks the one person who manages to embody the exception to _both_ his rules, simultaneously. Do I really need to name the person? I might as well, he does play a rather significant role in this story, after all.

At first, John is an interesting addition, stimulating and convenient. After a while, Sherlock realises that he functions better with John around, and that's the first link in the chain – need. John brings about an improvement in Sherlock, adds a level to Sherlock's performance, and Sherlock, ever the perfectionist when it comes to his performance, finds himself needing John in order to maintain this new high. By then, John is a requirement, and thus the first exception to be made to Sherlock's rule of not depending on people.

Still, the second rule still stands intact, and Sherlock decides to keep it that was. He knows how to deal with this – he has done it, repeatedly, with other things. And there lies the problem – for the first time, Sherlock is not dealing with a _thing_. John, being the stubborn _not-thing_ that he is, appears to have a will of his own, making Sherlock's efforts all the more strenuous. With time, Sherlock finds that he no longer just _needs_ John. He likes him. Then, he cares for him. Then - . _No._ _Care is enough. More than enough. Too much._

It is too much, because John is no longer just a catalyst. With time, Sherlock starts to care – about John, about John's needs and feelings and opinions. He feels a stab of something unpleasant (_regret, that's what it is. Regret; name it –take away its power_) when he catches a glimpse of disappointment on John's face every time Sherlock does or says something outstandingly insensitive. He _cares_ that John is disappointed, and that is not acceptable. Other people's opinions never mattered (well, that's not entirely true – they have, once, long before), and that was the right order of things. One cannot go around, deducing and functioning at a higher level of mental efficiency, if they have to constantly worry about opinions and feeling and social norms and similar nonsense. But John's opinion does matter, and that makes things complicated in a way Sherlock doesn't appreciate. Other people never mattered, but _John does_, and that makes things beyond complicated.

John is an anomaly, seeing as he seems to be the exception to most of Sherlock's rules, and despite Sherlock's adamant belief that exceptions do not confirm the rule, but rather prove it faulty, he cannot deny the fact that John is a more functional part of his life than any rule Sherlock ever came up with ever was. He cannot deny that _he_ is more functional with John, than he ever was without him.

* * *

One of the perks of being a storyteller is that I get an exclusive insight into everything that is happening, everything that is done and, what is more, everything that is _felt_. So, I know what comes at the end of that unfinished sentence ('_Then –'_), and it is most certainly not _'No'_. It's that elusive _something _that follows affection. Yes, I do know what the _something _is, yet, my own consciousness prohibits me from betraying those whose story I am telling. Some revelations are not mine to be made. I am only left hoping that those who lay claim on them reach them in time...before it's too late.

What I will tell you is this – Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were never cut out for just lucky. They are each other's exceptions, shattering the well-established forms of each other's worlds. They were always meant for the very lucky, the extraordinary life. Only, if you shatter the backbone of someone's world, establish yourself as the new pillar, what happens if you shatter as well? What is left to hold up the world then? I never said extraordinary lives were necessarily happy ones. I still think people are very lucky to get to live them, but then, I'm an optimist.

I will tell you something else – it is something about 'a_lmost always'._ Sherlock's assumptions are _almost always_ correct. I always thought exceptions and uncommon events made the best stories, wouldn't you agree? Well, this is one of those stories, because what follows is one of the rare cases which falls outside of Sherlock's _almost always._ Sherlock doesn't know it yet, but he will be proven wrong in his assumptions, because the final count of the victims won't be twelve. It will be thirteen.

So, what I am telling you is this – Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong in the group of people who are very lucky. Or very unlucky – it's only a matter of perspective.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! See you Tuesday :)**


	4. The eleventh hour

**Author's note: Good morning :)**

**Well, I've decided to post two chapters today, because the first one is somewhat shorter.**

**Enjoy your reading! :)**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Tight-lipped storytellers in the eleventh hour**

* * *

There are only two never-ending numbers – 0 and 8. What I mean is, they are infinite shapes – you could run along both of them and never reach the edge, endlessly going from beginning to beginning (or whatever spot you started on, really). It's what makes them special. 0, by itself, is a mystery and a phenomenon, always standing slightly apart from the rest of the numbers, so it's no wonder it's special.

But 8 – 8 is just a natural number, just like 7 and 9. There is really nothing special about it, apart from its endless shape. So, it is only right that the eighth victim is somehow special, too, despite being pretty much equal to all the other ones.

Actually, let me rephrase that. It is not the eighth victim who is special – it is what is found on him. Or, more precisely, what is not found. They don't find a chemical element at the feet of the man, his body on his right side, arms showing twelve in from of iron shavings.

Instead, they find a card. It's simple – white cardstock, sturdy, firm. It's simple, and yet, it's the most complicated thing, because it's an anomaly. On the card, there is an arrow, which is also an anomaly, seeing as it is not a regular arrow used in writing chemical equations – _that_ wouldn't have been an anomaly, not really. That would have made sense. This doesn't.

The arrow is drawn all in doubles. Double body, double head: =. After the forensics team processes the crime scene, Sherlock pockets the card, ignoring Lestrade's resigned sigh and feeble protests that he '_cannot steal evidence'_, and within the time it takes to make a dramatic exit (because Sherlock only ever exits _dramatically_), he is in a cab, riding back to Baker Street with John right beside him.

* * *

The last few weeks have taken their toll on the state of the flat. What was once a whimsical mess has since grown into a full-blown chaos of papers and photos, case files and test tubes. There are things scattered on the sofa, on the coffee table, on the desks, on the floor, and among them all, Sherlock sits like a monarch on a throne of strangely systematic disarray.

"It was pointing upwards, clockwise – he might be giving me a clue to the clock pattern. Perhaps he thinks I haven't worked that out yet – well, that seem like a highly unlikely option, then."

John rolls his eyes, half-amused and half-whatever it is Sherlock elicits in him in moments of blatant (but warranted) immodesty.

"Are you sure there was nothing at the crime scene?"

"Yes, I've inspected it twice."

"What if...what if it's not what's drawn on the card? What if it's something else?

Sherlock burrows his brow. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe he left a clue we can't see. Fingerprints, maybe. Or DNA..."

John's list is cut short by Sherlock's impatient wave of hand.

"I have already checked – there is nothing." His head bobs back down, as he stares at the evidence splayed out in front of him. When Sherlock speaks again, John can tell it's more to himself than to anyone in particular.

"Maybe he is introducing a new pattern...That would be interesting."

If Sherlock were paying attention, he would notice the microburst of agitation on John's face. He would catch the tightening of the soldier's fist, and the short bite to his lip. But Sherlock is engrossed with this new-found anomaly, so he doesn't notice any of this, until John's voice breaks into his muttering.

"No, no it wouldn't."

"What? Of course it would. A new pattern is always interesting. Why wouldn't it be?"

"Because a new pattern would mean more deaths, perhaps?"

"I never said it would be fortunate, John. I simply stated that it would be interesting. If only happy events were deemed interesting, a whole industry based on exploiting people's love for tragedy would collapse."

John can't deny the truthfulness of that, so he decides not to venture into this discussion, not tonight. Not yet.

"Fine. Just...keep in mind people are dead, alright? Besides, didn't you say it's the anomalies that always give them away?"

"Yes, but I meant the inadvertent ones. The ones that could be seen as mistakes usually give the killers away. But this, no. This is brilliant. He is changing the game before I had the time to work out what the previous game was. Or at least, he might be. I won't know until the next one whether or not this is a start of something new, or just a one-time difference."

Sensing that Sherlock has gone back to speaking mostly to himself, John turns away and busies himself with writing up the report for Lestrade. God know Sherlock only writes his under coercion, so John might as well get his part done and out of the way before twisting Sherlock's arm into doing the same.

* * *

Sherlock peruses the evidence from all eight crime scenes, trying to incorporate the newest piece of evidence. It's thrilling – a mind puzzle that changes just when he thought the pieces were starting to form a picture. A bit frustrating, but thrilling. There is nothing as boring as a rut, and murderers do get so attached to their MOs, that they, too, tend to get boring after a while, which is why this one is so sensational. To Sherlock, this – this whole string of crime and clues and, now, proverbial turns in the road – feels like a perpetual high, his brain being constantly fed new conundrums, being forced to stretch and contort in new ways. To Sherlock, this feels like running really fast, like muscles stretching beyond what was originally thought to be their limit. It's about the links, the clues, the deductions, about the brilliance of intricate plans. Why should he be blamed that such plans are employed for such dire purposes?

He knows John is bothered by it, which takes some of the pleasure out of it. Sherlock wants to know what will happen next, where this anomaly will fit within the bigger picture, but with each new victim, he can sense the bothersome chasm between himself and John grow wider. It is as if they are running in a constant loop, or better yet, making repetitive eight-shapes while chasing each other around a subject they both know could be their undoing, and each time they skid just a bit closer to it. It's only a matter of time until they crash into each other at the intersection of their routes.

* * *

Sherlock doesn't get his new pattern. He cannot decide whether he is annoyed and disappointed, or intrigued and challenged when the killer goes back to placing traces of elements at his victim's feet. The ninth victim comes with a strip of magnesium. The tenth comes with another tank of oxygen (_repetition – interesting. Significant? Maybe._). The eleventh is adorned with rubidium. And then it's 5 to 12, and they wait for the clock to strike midnight.

* * *

I'm a storyteller. Stories are what I am supposed to be good at. I've studied them, travelled them, observed them and deconstructed them. If I were the type, I would have categorised them – in alphabetical order, according to genre, by literary style and by era, and so on, and so on. But, when I think of it, that's not my job. I'm not a librarian. I'm a storyteller. I'm the non-person who stands on the margins, and is entrusted in delivering the story they are given. I've delivered several. Many. Delivered, raised, and sent off. Like children – I'm a nanny, in a way. But, I digress. What I meant to say is, I'm a storyteller, and as such, I know a thing or two about stories. I feel obliged to tell you these things, in hope that they will make up for the things I do not know (or cannot tell you). So, here it goes.

There are stories which draw you in with their plot, and ones that beguile you with their language. There are ones who offer you characters to fall in love with, and those that net a web of detail and intricacy around you. Stories are conniving creatures, spawns of science and magic, of the primal and the highly evolved that co-resides within us – children of urges and language. There is no such thing as an innocent story – each of them was taught dark arts at its birth; the sorcery of syntax, the alchemy of anticipation, the necromancy of narrative, which resurrects things deep within you, raises the dead.

There are stories which leave you feeling alive and light and buzzing. There are stories which leave you feeling hollow and aching, which, when you think about it, is a paradox, because how can a hollow space be filled with ache? And yet, there are stories which turn you into a paradox.

Even the bad stories – the poorly constructed ones and the ones that miss their mark, make you cringe or roll your eyes – you've read them. You've given them attention. For a moment, you lent them space in your mind, and that's all they need. Sneaky things, stories.

There are so many kinds of stories – I counted them up to the number of all living things, and then some.

You are probably wondering by now, what in heaven's name does all this have to do with clocks and chemistry and dead people. Well, it's got a little bit to do with each of those, but more importantly, it's got to do with _living_ people. Two of them, and their story. Because, you see, for all that I know about stories, none of my knowledge is proving helpful with telling you their story.

Is it a life-affirming one? Or a heart-breaking one? Is it good or bad? Will it leave you buzzing or will it turn you into a paradox? Maybe it will leave you completely indifferent, in the end.

The problem is – I don't know...yet. Or I do, and I just don't want to tell you. It could be either – I'm mean that way. There's no way for you to know. Either way, I cannot tell you much about it.

But let me tell you this – this is the eleventh hour. The last run along the infinite eight-shape before the crash comes. So, if you don't want to hear the clock strike midnight, don't want to witness the trip-and-fall instance that disrupts the momentum, then turn around and away, now. Turn around, and run, really, really fast.


	5. The past, the present and the future

**Chapter 5: The past, the present and the future walk into a bar...**

* * *

They find the twelfth victim in the same storage unit facility where they found the first victim, only in a different unit, one with a fading number 37 next to the door – the initial crime scene, the top of the clock again, midnight to midnight, back at 12. The body is once again positioned to mimic the hands of a clock striking 12, only this time there isn't a pile of iron shavings place above the contorted limbs. This time, the killer leaves a jar filled with bits of natrium. Sherlock snatches the jar as soon as Lestrade isn't looking, with a frantic glint in his eye. He seems enthralled by this new development, and hurries back to Baker Street to try and work out what it means.

When John walks into the kitchen, having fallen behind Sherlock on the way up, seeing as he had to pay the cab, reassure Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock will not damage the table this time (an unfortunate incident with the liquid nitrogen found on the fifth victim) and then stomp up the stairs, Sherlock is already slicing the sodium and placing a small bit on a microscope slide. He is buzzing with frenzied energy, and starts talking, more to himself than to John, as soon as the image under the instrument comes into focus.

"Twelve...he's finished the circle now, and yet he still left a clue on the last crime scene...Why? Maybe he's planning on another round. Oh! I wonder what he will use in this one...Elements again? Or something new...I'd hate for it to be elements again, it would get boring the second time around, really –"

"Sherlock, listen to yourself!"

Sherlock falters in his frantic movements and angles his body so to look at John, confusion clear on his face. John is standing, tense and rigid, on the border between the kitchen and the living room, eyes trained steadily on Sherlock. The '_for now'_ is over, as the last remnants of that once-steady happiness dissipate, highly reactive and unstable at room temperature, which seems like a boiling and a freezing point, all at the same time.

"You are bloody well _hoping_ for another bout of serial murders. _Of actual, living people, _Sherlock!"

Sherlock can feel the long-delayed confrontation rolling in like a storm. The pangs that he has managed to keep suppressed, now spread like an itch to the tips of his fingers, his mind and his tongue.

"No, John, I am not _hoping_ for it. I am simply considering it as an option, seeing as all the signs present seem to indicate future activity of the killer, and seeing as this one has proven himself to be a man of pattern; I am simply hypothesising about what he could use to form his next one."

"You are _hypothesising_ with a rather great enthusiasm."

"I don't see how my manner of hypothesising is relevant. It will neither encourage nor prevent the killer from doing whatever he has planned, so _why_ are you so upset? Yes, I am thrilled that there is someone out there who isn't a half-wit. The fact that they chose to employ their intellect for less-than-noble purposes is unfortunate, but I cannot do anything about it, except solve the crimes. I don't see how my pretending not to enjoy solving them will contribute to the investigation."

Twisting his body and rising from the chair, Sherlock erases the distance, between the kitchen table and where John stands, in three steps, as he fires off words faster than seconds on the clock manage to tick. John seems unfazed by Sherlock's actions, and stands his ground, unflinching.

"No, it's the fact that you keep on forgetting that these _thrilling_ events include people being murdered. Or, let me correct myself, you don't keep on forgetting – you _simply don't care_!"

"Again, John, I fail to see how my _caring_ is relevant, as it will in no way contribute to the investigation. You know me well enough to know I am not of the sort to be better motivated by sentiment, seeing as I _always_ use my abilities to their utmost, so whether I care or not is inconsequential. I will work as hard either way, and solve the crimes, either way. It is for that reason, although not solely that one, that I prefer to not burden myself with the unnecessary complications that come with involving sentiment in the process. The source of all the emotions, they say, is loss of control, which is a rebellion in the mind as a whole against right reason"

"You'd say that, wouldn't you?"

"Actually, Cicero said that, and rightfully so. Emotions would in no way be of use to me in my Work, if anything they would be a dangerous impediment. Tell me, John, do you think the families of the victims would rather that I stagger around, crushed by sadness over the deaths of their loved ones, or would they rather have me _solving their murders_?"

Well, this is probably the closest Sherlock Holmes has ever come to being wilfully obtuse (as he would say), or simply playing dumb (as John would say). If he weren't as bothered as he is, John would have found this sight enormously amusing. This way, it simply irks him further.

"You know very well that's not what I want to say. There is no need for you to _stagger around_, but it wouldn't kill you to show compassion, or just consider, for a moment, how other people feel. I don't know, Sherlock, caring simply makes a difference, even if the end result stays the same."

"But how? Tell me, John, if a man ran into a burning building and rescued three people, would it matter whether he did it because he _cared_ or because he simply got off on the danger of it?"

"I guess it wouldn't, if you look only at the final outcome. But it does matter, though. I can't explain it, but motivation does matter, _caring_ does matter, if only for the sake of what it means in the broader context. There is no logical explanation for it, it's really just a matter of..."

"Sentiment." Sherlock cuts in, treating the words as if it were vermin.

"Yes, sentiment! It might not matter to those you deliver the solution to, what your motivation was, but it matters, to others, to people around you. To people who care for more than just the solution, who care about you."

"But why? Why is this such a problem?"

"Because I don't want people to think you are heartless! I don't want them to overlook the person I know you are, because of the fact that you cannot rain yourself in, just for a moment, and show that you care!"

There is a shift in Sherlock's air, and John can sense the flood of words that is about to be released.

"I don't care, John! Don't you understand? I do not care about the people who died, since I didn't know them while they were alive, and whether I care or not has no power of resurrecting them, so there is really no point in caring for them. I leave that to their families, friends and whatever it is people have to make them feel socially accepted. That does not mean I am glad they are dead, or that I would wish them to be so, but I see no point in putting myself through a distressing experience of caring for a person who has been brutally murdered, simply _because_ they have been brutally murdered. I may lack empathy in that regard, but that doesn't make me cruel. Caring whether someone is dead or not is of no use to them, nor me.

So, no, I do not care for the victims, and neither do you, despite liking to think so. You feel sorry for them, for the future they lost, for the ones they left behind, but don't mistake pity for caring, John. You may _feel_ for the grieving family, empathise with them, but _caring_, truly caring, would break any man. If you were to truly care for each person whose murder we solve, the way you do for those close to you, where would that lead? It would be highly unproductive, seeing as you would constantly be burdened by grief. So, do not call me callous when I am simply being pragmatic. My skills are much better employed if I am clear of distractions, and in the end, that's why people consult me – to solve cases, not to weep over the bodies.

As for the living, I may disregard feelings of others on most occasions, but whether or not they allow my words and actions to harm them is completely up to them. I am not responsible for their feelings. I simply state the truth, and if they are hurt by it, then their denial is entirely theirs to deal with. Honesty and truth are not the same as malice. It is simply that people like to maintain a certain image of themselves in their heads, and once that image is shattered, they do not enjoy what they find instead of it. And I am equally not responsible for the fact that you are disappointed in me for not living up to the heroic image you have made of me in your head.

To address your last reason – what people might think of me. If they cannot see the right features by which they should be impressed and if their admiration can only be earned by presenting them with an expected sentimental display, then their admiration is unwanted. Witless admiration is never a compliment. Only a fool is flattered by foolishness of others. There aren't many people whose opinion I care to think of as valuable, and I found that to be greatly practical."

Have you ever heard that pun about the past, the present and the future? It goes something like this: the past, the present and the future walked into a bar – it was tense. Well, no matter what your stand on puns is, this one fails at being funny in this case because, as Sherlock finishes his speech, eyes never leaving John's, it proves to be so dismally true. All that has accumulated in the past 24 days (and longer), accrues into the present moment, making the future questionable and uncertain, and it most certainly makes the atmosphere _tense_, even if not the sort of 'tense' the pun refers to (thank heavens for homonyms).

"Are you done?" John asks, voice no longer loud, but ever more strained.

"Why? Do you require any further explanations?" If voices had teeth, Sherlock's would be carnivorous, biting and tearing flesh from bone.

"No...No, I think I've heard enough. "

There is a buzzing tension filling the room, not letting it fall truly silent. After the not-so-silent silence stretches out for several moments, John moves away, into the living room, stepping onto the opposite side of the boundary he toed during their discussion. After a few more beats, Sherlock moves back to the table, lowering his head down to the microscope once again. When John speaks again, his voice is an amalgam of strain and fatigue.

"Lestarde says he needs your report on the last victim. Have you written it up?"

Sherlock doesn't bother looking up, his tone neutral and aloof, as if all that has transpired just minutes before was just a rehearsal for a dramatic piece.

"Yes, it is in the case file. He can pick it up when he brings the coroner's report."

"No, I'll take it up to the Yard." John turns and starts leafing through the mess of papers on the sofa, searching for the right file.

"Why? You have no business in the city, and Lestrade doesn't need the report right this instant."

"I said, I'll take it, Sherlock."

"Is this sort of convoluted way of telling me you '_need some air'_? Because if it is, you are simply confirming my standpoint on sentiment."

"And how am I doing that?"

"You are upset by our discussion, and rather unnecessarily so, if I may note, thus requiring time to get a hold of your emotions – time that could be considerably better spent by assisting me, may the need arise. So, tell me John, how are you helping anyone by _caring_, in this instant?"

"You are unbelievable."

"Yes, you have said so repeatedly over the time of our acquaintance."

"I don't mean it as a compliment, this time."

"Should I feel insulted by it, then?" There is cold condescension in Sherlock's voice.

"I don't know, feel whatever the bloody way you want. Or don't. I'm taking the file to Lestrade. I'm going to walk, so I don't know when I'll be back. Try not to wake Mrs. Hudson."

"Fine. I'll text you if I need you." Sherlock doesn't look up from his microscope, and John finds his blatant pretence of indifference (and God, he hopes it's just pretence) enraging, so he spits Sherlock's own words back at the man, with a clenched fist and a clipped tone.

"Why would you need _me_..."

With that, John is gone, and Sherlock is left with a jar of highly reactive chemicals in front of him, and bitter words coating his tongue like sickness, ready to be spoken.

* * *

What were the words? Sherlock never says them, so it would be all too easy for you to never find out. However, luckily for you, I do not depend of vocalisation of thoughts in order to be able to hear them, so I know precisely what Sherlock starts to reply, when he realises there is no one to hear his retort.

Don't worry, I'll tell you the words, just not right now. Now is time for a bit of silence, after all the words that were spoken. I will tell you, in just a bit, but for now, let there be some silence, filled with ticking of the kitchen clock and the soft splashing sounds of sodium being dropped back into the jar.

* * *

**Ok, so this chapter is a product of several things, which I would like to point out.**

**First is the fact that I think the whole matter of caring which is discussed in here, has potential as a topic which can be further explored. It is not black and white, and I personally think both John and Sherlock have some valid arguments (I'm not a sociopath, I promise, I just like to consider several POVs). The second things is a conversation I had shortly before I started watching the series, with my best friend, who is sort of the Sherlock to my John when it comes to such things, which had a very similar thought at its centre, and allowed me to debate this topic in real life. And lastly, the third thing is a class I took, dealing with human interaction and communication, which is where parts of Sherlock's rhetoric come from.**

**I didn't want this whole discussion to come down to some sort of "If he doesn't care for others, does that mean he doesn't care for me" line of thinking, because that would defy the point of the whole chapter. I don't think John minds Sherlock's behaviour because he is insecure about what he means to Sherlock. I honestly think the reason why he minds so much is because he cares for Sherlock and wants Sherlock to be the best he can, the man John sees when he looks at him. It's not about changing Sherlock, but simply about developing those aspects of him which Sherlock himself considers irrelevant.**

**Well, now that I've finished my rant - thank you for reading :) See you Thursday!**


	6. Speaking a dead language

**Author's note:**** Good morning! :)**

**I'm up when even the Sun is still asleep, so excuse any typos, mistakes, etc. - my proof-reading skills decided to stay in bed this morning.**

**Just one thing - something is messing with my text, so I can't include the right symbols in it, more precisely, the double-drawn arrow that was found on Victim 8. This arrow will be important, so in places where you just see "=", please imagine two arrow heads drawn next to it, one after another, on the right side of the "=" sign.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 6: Speaking a dead language**

* * *

John doesn't wait for Sherlock's response, so he doesn't catch the moment when Sherlock finally lifts his head to look at the doorway, which, just moments ago, hosted the angry army doctor. John doesn't hear Sherlock's retort, because Sherlock never actually speaks the words. But, I promised to tell them to you, nonetheless.

_(Why would you need me...)_

'_No reason at all'_ – Sherlock hears the words that were directed at him through a chemical haze, some months ago. His tongue already moves to cast them out, spit them at John the same way John spit Sherlock's words at him, but his flatmate is already gone by the time Sherlock opens his mouth, bitter words settling in it like aspirin dust, and the detective is left wondering whether he would have really said them if John stayed long enough to hear them.

The words are almost like a reflex, a twitch of finger when pricked by a needle – a response of an agitated (_wounded_) animal, because _doesn't John know_, _can't he see? _Sherlock is angry with John for bringing up the infernal subject again, and disrupting what was otherwise a very enjoyable case. He is angry with John for being able to rile up him so. More than anything, he is angry with himself for allowing himself to feel agitated. For allowing himself to feel _anything_ that is not related to or contributing to the solution of the case.

He is angry at John for not asking the right questions. Why does he care about who Sherlock _doesn't _care for? How does he expect that to make things better, when he should be asking about who and what Sherlock _does_ care for; about whose opinion he values, instead of worrying about irrelevant opinions of irrelevant people. Because, if John had only remembered to ask those questions, the answer to all of them would have been _'You'_.

On second thought, perhaps Sherlock isn't really angry at John for asking the wrong questions. Perhaps he is just relieved.

_No reason at all_ – what a lie that would have been. Now it will never be, and just like caring can't resurrect the dead, dwelling over unsaid words can't resurrect the conversation of which they were supposed to be a part, so Sherlock clears his mind of them and turns back to the make-shift laboratory constructed on the kitchen table.

"What are you saying..?" he mumbles over the microscope, speaking to no one in particular, forcing his attention back to the case at hand. He still has a killer to unveil, and that must always come first, because it's a time-ticking puzzle in which the pieces get deformed if they are not tended to immediately.

He goes through the list of possible patterns again. It is obvious chemistry plays some kind of role in the whole conundrum, so he starts there.

Elements get their symbols from Latin or, at times, Greek words from which they draw their names. Sherlock looks at the list again. The only exceptions among the elements listed are nickel and erbium, both of which derive their names from Germanic languages – exception: meaningful? Possibly. Revisit later.

Fe O Al Ni N Er S Mg O Rb Na

_Ferrum, oxys_...all the way to _natrium_. But _what do they mean?_ Sherlock lists the known uses of each of the elements, and then of their combinations. Alloys, salts, solutions – nothing jumps out as meaningful. There must be something, a pattern to serve as a message, None of this is arbitrary, not with this killer. This killer is smart, they are clever and...Oh.

He is clever, he uses weaknesses as shields, turns everything around. Error to advantage, clever to simple.

Oh. Stupid. Not _ferrum_. _Iron_. Not _natrium_. _Sodium_.

Iron, oxygen, hydrogen, aluminium, nickel, erbium, sulphur, magnesium, oxygen, rubidium, sodium.

Now what? There are several possible ways to use these names to send a message, each as probable as the next. Simple elimination, then. But where to start?

In order not to repeat his mistake, Sherlock starts with the most obvious and least _clever_ option. He doesn't really think it could be _that_ simple. _It really couldn't, could it_?

Well...Sherlock Holmes lives to see himself being wrong two times in as many minutes, because in this case, simple really does do it.

**I**ron  
**O**xygen  
**A**luminium  
**N**ickel  
**N**itrogen  
**E**rbium  
**S**ulphur  
**M**agnesium  
**O**xygen  
**R**ubidium  
**S**odium

IOANNESMORS...wait, there was something else. The card with the unusual arrow he found on the eighth victim. Presumably, the arrow is intended as a part of the message.

IOANNES = MORS

Oh. Clever...it's the other way around – the names of the elements must be read in English, but the message itself is in Latin and Greek. Oh, very clever – making it less clever and counting on Sherlock's inborn need for things to be smart.

Sherlock can feel the thrumming of excited blood in his ears. He is loving this, a challenge, something imaginative. He was never really the one for riddles, but still, he has to admit to being thoroughly pleased by the amount of detail and precision invested in these murders. The symbolic elements might be somewhat exaggerated, for Sherlock's taste, but the challenge is invigorating.

_Mors_ – Latin. Obvious – death.

_Ioannes_ – name, biblical Greek: religious element? Hardly, the rest of the MO is science-related, with no biblical references. Still...purposefully so? Religious element: viable option to keep in mind. Rarely used any more..._Ioannes_ – modern versions: (use of Greek and Latin in the message – start with Modern Greek and Romanic languages. Logical.) Yannis (Greek), Ioan (Romanian), Yann (Breton), Xoán (Galician), Jean (French)..._Jean..._Modern English – _John_.

John.

JOHN = DEATH

_Not brilliant. Not clever. Wrong. So very, very wrong. And utterly unacceptable._

Sherlock's excitement quickly turns sour with trepidation. He snatches his phone out of his pocket and calls John, not surprised when the line rings out several times, with no answer. There are two options – either John is ignoring him, still angry, or he cannot answer. Either way, it's not good, so Sherlock dials Lestrade.

"Sherlock? You are _calling_ me? What happened, your thumbs fell off and you couldn't text?"

"Has John been to see you?"

The DI's voice quickly loses its joking tone in the face of Sherlock's rather tense one.

"Um, yeah, 'bout some hour and twenty minutes ago. Brought the report I asked for. I thought he'd be home by now."

"I assume from your answer he is no longer with you."

"Yeah...why? Isn't he with you? What's going on, Sherlock?"

"He hasn't finished. That's why he left another clue. He hasn't finished yet."

"Who? John? Finished what?"

"No!" Sherlock's growl of frustration seems to send shivers down the line "The killer, the Round-the-clock killer. He isn't done yet. There is going to be another victim if we don't stop him."

"Another? And what does that have to do with John?"

Sometimes, Sherlock wonders how people don't accidentally choke on their own asinity.

"It's going to be John."

"Are you sure?"

_Oh, for the love of – _

"Of course I'm sure! He left me a message saying so. Now stop wasting time asking redundant questions, and send your hoard of incompetent officers out to search!"

"And where exactly am I supposed to send them to? You are not giving me much to work with here!"

"I haven't worked out precisely where yet, so send them to all the previous crime scenes until I do."

"Fine, I'll do that. Listen, Sherlock...we'll find him, ok?"

"I'll call when I figure it out."

Sherlock hangs up, leaving Lestrade's not-quite-rhetorical question unanswered. He is just about to dispose of his phone when it comes to life with a buzz, one that indicates a text. When John's name flashes on the screen, he feels a surge of ridiculous relief that feels very much like running very fast – light and dizzy and exhilarating.

Let me tell you something about surges: they always precede the crash. They are a small part of a greater motion, one that never ceases. Rolling and swelling and crashing and swirling. Feet on concrete, blood in vessels, electrons around nuclei, cogs in a clock. Always in motion.

So, the faith of Sherlock's surge is rather predictable – it crashes and dissolves, like it never existed in the first place, dragging him under, as he opens the text, and reads the message sent from what is definitely John's number, constituted of what are definitely _not_ John's words. For once, Sherlock is not at all thrilled to have his assumptions confirmed, as he stares at the screen.

Two words stare back: _Tick-tock._

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**Thank you for reading! See you on Saturday :)**


	7. Running scared, you are tripping

**Author's note:**** Good morning!**

**I won't rant for long, just a quick note. Seeing as the site doesn't let me reply to guest reviews, I just want to thank TJ, to whom I wasn't able to reply in a private message, and who left a truly wonderful review on the last chapter - thank you so much :) Of course, the thanks also goes to everyone else who has stuck with this story up till this point :)**

**So, without further ado - enjoy! **

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**Chapter 7: Running scared, you are tripping over your own brain**

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The connections are right there, floating just out of his reach. The clue must be somewhere, must be hidden, just like the message was.

The elements, the order in which they were left-

_John, in the tramway tunnel, tied to a chair– _

The victims – something about them: gender, age, occupation –

_John, at the pool, speaking Moriarty's words – _

The choice of crime scenes, the clock layout –

_John, with a bomb strapped to his chest and a laser point illuminating his face from below –_

The clothes, the chains –

_John, kneeling in Irene Adler's drawing room, with a gun pressed to the back of his head... 'On the count of three, shoot Dr. Watson –'_

Sherlock closes his eyes, pulling wildly at his hair. It's as if he keeps on running through wrong doors, constantly losing his way, and stumbling upon unsettling memories which crash into his attempts at logic, shattering them, and sending him back to the beginning.

He opens his eyes and moves from the kitchen and into the living room, where the crime scene photos are scattered over every inch of spare surface.

The images that start forming when he casts a look at the photos, are no longer ones from the past, and do nothing to lessen the fear. Instead, Sherlock can feel his mind grow even more frenzied, as flashes of a possible future – one he cannot exclude as a possibility (and that fact is frightening) – repeatedly interrupt his train of thought.

_John, stretched out on cold, wet concrete – _

The clocks, number 12 –

_John, wrists and ankles bound by watch-chains, used as hands of a clock – _

NO! This has to stop. The adrenalin elicited from the high of the case is being polluted by that drawn out by fear, and the concoction is highly destructive. Sherlock doesn't like how it makes him feel like new skin – raw, exposed, debilitated.

_Think._ _What is relevant?_

_The complexes – abandoned; no surveillance. The company – bankrupt and shut down. The first victim was found in Northern London. What is relevant? Clocks and chemistry. Clocks – what about clocks?_

As Sherlock visualises the map of London in his mind, it blurs and shakes with the suppressed fear, but he focuses on it, and forces the fear further down. He places the crime scenes on the map – they form a circle, more or less. Not only that – they form it precisely as he places them, from first to last, going clockwise. _Of course – the storage unit facilities of the company that went bankrupt are placed all over London, and he only had to follow the ticking of the clock to find which would be the next. _

Well, that's one part of the problem solved...There is still something else to it, and Sherlock can feel it, like an itch just out of reach, maddening. Using his newest discovery, he starts over, from the beginning, from the top of the clock – the first victim.

_Female, 20, found in a storage unit with the number erased – anomaly; all other units had numbers, presumably randomly chosen._

_What other anomalies where there? Third victim was bald, while all others had hair; seventh victim was single and a former foster child – no connections, while all other were either married or in a relationship; the ninth had a cat while others didn't have pets. No, no, no! How can any of that be relevant? How is he supposed to find John when all he is given are irrelevant anomalies, traces of chemical elements and randomly chosen crime scenes? This is not how things work, he needs more data. He needs more to be able to make a pattern out of all this random – _

_Oh. No, not random...Unit numbers and traces of elements. Not random at all. Chemistry._

He scrambles towards the crime scene photos strewn around the floor. He searches for the ones showing the storage units from the outside, with the numbers visible just beside the doors.

_The first victim was found in an unmarked storage unit – the start._

_Second victim – storage unit number 26._

_Third – unit number 8._

_Fourth – 13._

_Fifth – 28._

_Sixth – 7._

_Seventh – 68._

_Eighth – 16. Wait. The eight victim, the most obvious anomaly. _How did he not think of it sooner_. ('Fear, that's how' _whispers a voice in Sherlock's head_). The eighth victim didn't have an element – a break in the pattern. Why? To throw him off the trail? Or to indicate a new lead? The real pattern? They only found the card with the arrow..the arrow – it wasn't the usual arrow used in chemical equations; it was a double arrow, with two lines and (what is stranger still) a double drawn head – another anomaly, he was puzzled by it at the time. Why? How does it fit in the rest? How does it fit with the numbers? Numbers. Victim nine was found in a storage unit with number twelve on it... How does the arrow relate to twelve?_

Everything else fits the pattern – the last three victims were found in storage units number 8, 37 and 11, respectively. It's rather simple actually, and Sherlock would kick himself for not noticing it, but he has more pressing matters to tend to.

It is clear as day – the elements found on the victims are not only letters of the message, but also a lead to the next victim. It's all in the numbers. _Unit numbers. Atomic numbers._ That's why the first victim was found in an unmarked unit – that was the start, with no lead preceding it. They found iron above her hands; atomic number 26. They found the second victim in the 26th unit of the next nearest abandoned complex, if one is to move clockwise on the map from the first crime scene. It goes on – each new element found corresponding to the number of the storage unit the next victim is found in. It all fits, except for the arrow, except for victim number eight, who was found with no element and only a card.

_Connection to twelve. There must be a connection. There is nothing random about this, it is all in a pattern. There must be a link between the card and twelve. Think! What else is relevant? Clock and chemistry, and what else?_

Sherlock glances over everything again. All this, all the clues and the elements and the deaths, all just to send him a message._ The message. Greek and Latin. Ancient languages, ancient civilisations –Greek and Roman. Roman! Yes, that's it – Roman numerals. The arrow, drawn double despite the convention in chemistry. Of course. Obvious._

Don't worry if it's not as obvious to you as it is to Sherlock. I wouldn't have the slightest idea what he was on about, but luckily for me (and consequently, for you), in that moment Sherlock does something that he usually wouldn't, if he were allowed to function in full capacity. Alas, Sherlock is afraid and, consequently, torn between his deductions and suppressing the fear, so he acts out of character, so to say. As I said, this proves to be a lucky circumstance for me, as it allows me to actually see and understand what the _obvious_ revelation is.

He grabs the card, which lays half-obscured by the close-up of the eighth victim, and places it next to a pad. Grabbing a pen, he copies it. Two horizontal lines, parallel one over another, and a double arrow head on one side. Then he throws the card away, its purpose fulfilled, and continues writing. He deconstructs the arrow, so that it is now two parallel lines, positioned vertically one next to the other, and flips one of the arrow heads, so that it forms the mirror image of the other: II X .

His hand rushes over the paper some more, switching lines here and there, etching new marks into the cheap leaf. He merges the two arrow heads into a single X, and puts it in front of the two lines. In a matter of seconds, he is done, looking drained and frantic instead of the usual triumphant. On the pad, there is a simple symbol – XII – Roman number twelve.

_There it is – connection._ _The killer did leave a clue about where the ninth victim would be, after all._

It is only after he has done all this that Sherlock realises he actually used pen and paper. He hasn't done that in years, hasn't had the need to – his mind was always a wide enough canvas for all such simple visual tasks. He would blame it on the fear, but in that moment he has no time to cast blame – all the pieces fit now which means that he needs to call Lestrade (_not text, he might not see the text in time_) and tell him what he knows.

As Sherlock dials on speed-dial, his hands shake, like they did once before, in front of another fire place, with a glass clenched in one of them, then. When Lestrade picks up after the second ring, Sherlock forgoes his usual rapid monologue, because none of it matters now. There is only one thing that is important, and that is the end product. It is completely irrelevant that he knows the pattern and the links between Roman numbers and Latin, and atomic number and unit numbers. What matters is what he can deduce from it all. Sherlock Holmes knows a lot of things, but there is only one that he considers of any importance, right then, and that's the only thing he tells Lestrade.

He knows where John is.

After he tells Lestrade the address and says to meet him there, Lestrade offers to pick him up (_Why is he still talking on the phone, wasting time, and not driving over to the storage unit facility already?_)

"No! No, don't waste time picking me up. Go straight to the address I told you, I'll meet you there."

He ends the call. The air smells of chemicals, and the clock in the kitchen is very, very loud, for some reason. Sherlock stands for a moment, before rushing out and hailing down a cab. From there on, everything is bound to happen in terms of fast movement and loud voices and general commotion. Sherlock prefers it like that, because all of it is better than that still moment in which he finds himself stranded after hanging up on Lestrade.

With the chemicals and the clock, that moment smells and sounds like fear.

* * *

***dramatic music in the background* Surprise, surprise, it's a cliff-hanger...well, guess you'll have to hang on (see what I did there?) until Monday :)**


	8. A darkness distinctly different

**Author's note:**** Yes, I know I said there wouldn't be a new update till Monday, but I changed my mind, and decided (for rather mundane reasons I'm sure are of no interest to anyone, really) to update every day from now till the story is done. I'm sooooo changable like that :P So, here's chapter 8...**

**Enjoy! :)**

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**Chapter 8: A darkness distinctly different**

* * *

I could tell you about how John gets to the storage unit – about how he leaves the flat to go to the Yard and return the case files to Lestrade, and is then offered a ride back home by someone to whom he has been kind, on several occasions. I could tell you about his confusion when that person takes a wrong turn, and then another, and then another, and with each John feels more and more as if the wrong turns are deliberate. I could tell you all of this, but I prefer to skip the boring parts. Also, if I told you too much, it would spoil the story.

There are other things I could tell you about, instead – the feeling John gets when his suspicion grows into a conviction; the feeling when he realises what the conviction means; the darkness that comes over him after the fourth "wrong" turn, just as he twists his head to try and catch the name of the street (just in case he might need to text someone the location). In fact, I think I will tell you about the darkness, seeing as it might come in handy for comparison, later on.

This darkness feels like vertigo, like a concussion. It feels like an oil stain is flowing through John's blood vessels, muddying his mind in the process. He feels as if he is falling in several directions as one, running on quick-sand. There are echoes of words in his head, intelligible and startlingly sonorous.

* * *

When John comes to, he feels light-headed and heavy-limbed. There is a delicate chill binding his wrists together and cutting sharply into the gentle skin that covers them. It takes John a moment to sort out all the sensory input, which clashes around and into him in a dizzying vortex, but when he does, he realises the reason why his limbs feel too heavy and pulling is because he is suspended, like a clock pendulum, from the ceiling of a small , poorly-lit space. The toes of his shoes hang only a few centimetres above the floor, yet it is enough for gravity to do its work, exerting stress on joints of John's arms as his upper extremities keep being pulled at and forced to endure his body's weight. The slight swaying is not helping the vertigo, which still paints the world with unnatural swirls of colour, as his eyes prove reluctant in their cooperation.

John blinks – once, twice – letting out a quiet groan, as he tries to bring the blobs of various shades that lie below and around him, into focus. Just as he manages to make out the now-familiar shape of iron shavings and a metal container, he hears a voice coming from behind.

"Glad to see you're awake, good doctor."

A figure steps into his line of vision, staying on the outskirts of the circle that has been formed around John. A full set of various elements – all twelve, used in previous murders. John lifts his eyes from the ground and meets the gaze of the young forensic technician who has offered to give him a ride back from the Yard. Camden...Clarence...something with a C...The young tech who was there when the first victim was found. Come to think of it now, he was there on all crime scenes – _well, of course he was, it's his job_, John can almost hear Sherlock's tone, the one he uses when people are being obvious or stupid. He was always so inconspicuous, just quietly performing his duties; no one ever really paid him any attention, except when – oh. Except when Sherlock picked on him.

"Why?" John manages to croak out, his tongue seemingly too big for his mouth. Clemence! That's the man's name. John knew it was something unusual.

"Why? Well, I'm glad you're awake because I want to tell you about some things."

John shakes his head, regretting the movement instantly.

"No, why-?"

"Oh, you mean, why all this? Isn't it obvious?" The man's voice is still the same one he uses at crimes scenes – calm, friendly. It unsettles John more than any open sign of malice or aggression ever could. He strains to speak, knowing that he is buying time by keeping up the conversation.

"Revenge?"

"Revenge? Why would I want revenge?" Clemence sounds genuinely confused. John doesn't know whether it's the drug, but he can't help the feeling that this whole mess is getting more and more surreal, by the minute.

"Because of what Sherlock did, how he treated you. For the humiliation and –"

"Oh, no, no" The homicidal technician laughs an easy laugh, as if he and John just solved a misunderstanding regarding some mundane issue. "On the contrary, I would have been disappointed if he hadn't done so. Really, a man of his calibre should not have to put up with inadequacy. Besides, I was counting on it. That's why I mishandled the evidence."

John's face contorts, half with pain and half with confusion.

"Do you really think I've done that accidentally? Do you think I would have been able to manage all this, but mucked up a simple crime scene procedure? Good doctor, I see you are still somewhat out of sorts. I needed Mr. Holmes to believe I was as incompetent as everyone else, knowing that would serve as my greatest alibi and cover. Who would ever suspect an idiot?"

_Hiding in plain sight_. Sherlock would be thrilled.

"Why then?"

Clemence looks at John with somewhat resembling disappointment.

"Why, time, of course."

"Time?"

"Yes, time. We cannot control our own, can't slow it down or speed it up, or stop it. But we can stop the time of others. Isn't it marvellous? Being able to control time like that? It seems to be always moving, so who would not revel in the opportunity to stop perpetual motion? I stopped all of their times. And now, now I will stop yours, which is a whole new level, seeing as it will serve a double cause."

"And why is that?"

"Well, you see, my father was a clockmaker. Fascinating things, clocks. They are a perfect structure, an assembly of tiny pieces put together in a way that makes them more than just their sum. It makes them tick. They are precise, intricate, always moving, each with their own share of time. Humans are like clocks. A bunch of tiny pieces that need to be put in a certain way to tick. And Sherlock Holmes is like the most exquisite clock – precise, high-functioning.

Funny thing is, for such intricate machines, it doesn't take much to stop clocks. All you need to do is remove a key piece, the thing that makes them tick. It is such power, stopping a clock like that. I wanted to study him, see what he was made of – but I needed to stop him first, in order to deconstruct him. If I stopped his time by killing him, it would be like smashing a fine Swiss clock – blasphemy, really. No, I wanted to pick him to pieces, so I removed the key piece that made him tick – or, I plan to very soon. And here you are."

John listens, trying to make some sense of all the metaphoric gibberish coming out of the tech's mouth. He can deal with crimes of passion, or crimes of greed. Those are understandable, common – but this doesn't seem to be one of those crimes.

"Why do you need to study him?"

"Because it's fascinating, good doctor. And after a while, a man wishes to know the mechanics that drive such fascinating constructs." The man says this as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, and John knows he can't talk his way out of this. There is no common sense, no healthy logic behind any of this, just twisted illusions and sick fascination. He wishes his brain was still addled enough for him not to know what comes next. He tries battling against his shackles, but only manages to sway a bit more violently.

"You are mad." John is proud at the fact that his voice holds none of the dread he feels.

"Other doctors have called me that, before. But, no. Not mad – just curious. Well, I can't have you yelling while I deal with my preparations. I find loud noises in small spaces rather unpleasant. Seeing as I can't rely on you not to make any, I'm afraid I will have to intervene. Time is up, I'm afraid. Good night, good doctor."

As he feels darkness claiming him once again, John thinks of what he once told Sherlock – that he didn't have to imagine what his last words would be, were he faced with death. He expects the same words to settle him into the impending darkness, but the words never come. John doesn't pray or beg. He doesn't recite quiet psalms, or offer bargains for his life. In fact, what crosses his mind this time, aren't words, at all, but an image. It's an image of a face.

He thinks of Sherlock – Sherlock with his quick-silver tongue and inappropriate excitement. Sherlock with his dark definitions of "interesting". Sherlock, who solves crimes, when he could be so easily committing them, instead. He thinks of Sherlock, who doesn't care for propriety or empathy for strangers, but who cares about puzzles and solutions, and chooses to aim that care at bringing closure to the very people he doesn't empathise with. In the end, John thinks, maybe it doesn't matter that Sherlock refuses to care about some things, because he cares enough about other ones, and at the end of the day, he still sides with the good guys.

John tries to think some more, about Sherlock, who cares enough to know that Mrs. Hudson likes when he wipes his shoes on the mat before entering her kitchen, and cares enough to know John well enough to be able to guess all his passwords. He tries to think about Sherlock, who cares enough to debate the same subject of caring, over and over.

John tries to think about all of this, but he fails as he is once again enveloped by darkness. Just before the world is lost to John (or is it the world that loses John?), he thinks he hears a voice yelling his name. It's as far as he gets with thinking – a phantom voice and its ambiguous existence – and then there's nothing.

* * *

This is a new darkness, the same one I found myself in when you joined me in this story. It is different than the first one I've told you about. This one is silent and still, empty. It is nothing like falling or running. It doesn't feel like much, really. I am stranded in it, with clocks and chemistry and caring, left to contemplate stories, and happiness-that-no-longer-is, and thirteen victims instead of the predicted twelve.

If I had to assign it a feeling, I guess this darkness would feel like the number thirteen.

* * *

**See you tomorrow! :)**


	9. Crucially contextual

**Author's note:**** Good morning! New day, new chapter :) Again, thank you to TJ, and of course Isayan, as well as everyone else who is following this story - you are an inspiration.:)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 9: Crucially contextual**

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It is strange how important context is, how it manages to redefine terms. Another important C. Context is what differentiates a killer from a saviour. Context can redefine words we thought could never be dubious in their meaning. Like mercy. Context redefines mercy, for example. One couldn't easily relate mercy to a shot to the head, but with a little help of context, what is usually considered a crime, becomes mercy. And an unwarranted, undeserved one at that, if you ask Sherlock.

When Lestrade shoots John's kidnapper in the head, death is instantaneous. The man doesn't suffer, probably doesn't even have time to realise what happened. It's mercy, because his death is rather imminent from the moment he refuses to give himself up peacefully, so the only remaining question becomes what it would look like. In this context, Lestrade is merciful, because, if Sherlock had gotten to the man first, there would be no mercy. It isn't fair, according to Sherlock, to grant that sort of mercy – not when John wasn't granted one. Not when Sherlock wasn't granted one. Their suffering for a merciful death – how is that a fair trade?

Still, context decides to make Lestrade a merciful man, and a saviour. It also allows Sherlock to do something he usually never would – something he would be appalled by if it weren't for the given circumstances. _Circumstances, context, clocks, chemistry._ The Cs seem to be closing in on Sherlock, forging a chain that binds his wrists and ankles, but there is still one C left, the most important one, and that is the one that doesn't fall into the chain – instead, it helps break it and helps Sherlock move. But to tell this part properly, we need to go just a little bit back, just a few moments before the shot to the head.

It is because of context and circumstances and clocks and chemistry, Sherlock forgets about the fact that he is at a crime scene – doesn't delete it, simply forgets – and tampers with it. When they arrive to the storage facility located in the centre of the imaginary clock – the circle has been completed, the only place left being the very centre, where the hands of the clock meet and are bound together - he runs right through the labyrinth of halls, pounding on the wet concrete floor and towards the body that hangs in the unit marked 16, surrounded by metallic powders and containers of liquid, with another body – person – standing over it. Sherlock can hear the ticking of the clock, and runs faster, making his steps louder than the ticking. Behind him there are other steps thundering, as Lestrade and his team chase after.

He runs, and I wonder if he knows about that feeling I was telling you about at the very start. Perhaps he knows that if you run very, very fast, you can outrun time – make it stop, as you encompass it.

Sherlock is running towards the hanging body, and his running is not a controlled collection of coordinated movements anymore – it's need, his body moving on its own accord, propelled by momentum. I wonder if he is doing it in order to stop time...but I think that's not the reason. Oh, I'm sure he would love for it to be possible – _Sherlock Holmes, the man who stopped time, who raced against time and won_. What a title that would make.

Still, I don't think that's why he is running, because, you see, Sherlock doesn't know about time-stopping running and all that, because he wasn't there when I told you about it. So, I am pretty sure that's not why he runs. In fact, I am pretty sure I know his reason. It's a much simpler and an endlessly more potent one. It's the same reason why he would probably wish for it to be possible to run time to a stop.

Sherlock Holmes runs because he cares.

Then there are names yelled (Sherlock doesn't even register when John's name tears from his mouth– it's a reflex, part of the momentum), shots fired, mercies extended and lives taken, but Sherlock doesn't stop running, because the clock doesn't stop ticking. It won't stop until he has reached his destination and looked for another sort of ticking – that of a pulse.

The average human heart beats 60 to 100 times per minute, when at rest. When it beats at 60, it fills a minute with as many beats as there are seconds in this minute measure of time. Let's suppose John's heart beats 60 times per minute. I could give you sound reasons for this (for example, he is physically fit, and physically fit people tend to have a lower heart rate at rest, that those who are not), but really, my reason is that it just fits so perfectly into the story. Besides, I get to have a look into that heart (both of their hearts), so I would know how fast it beats, wouldn't I? So, doubt me if you wish, but suppose, for the sake of the story, that John Watsons heart usually beats at 60 beats per minute. I say usually, because at that moment the presence of the beat is uncertain.

When Sherlock finally reaches John's body in the centre of the make-shift clock, the ticking stops for a second. It's the longest second, as he reaches up, fingers finding the carotid on John's neck. He waits for the beat of John's heart to mark the next second, substituting the ticking of the clock. There are 60 seconds in a single minute. Usually, there are 60 heartbeats of John Watson's heart within a single minute. Sherlock Holmes reaches up in the infinitesimal time frame between two seconds, and is left waiting for time to continue flowing together with John's blood beneath his fingertips.

* * *

The time between two seconds is infinitely small, and yet, look at how many words I've managed to fit in it. That's another perk of being a storyteller – to me, time is relative. It is also pliable, yielding like putty under my palms. I can stretch it or contract it, shape it to my will. I can leave you suspended in the vacuum between two seconds for eons. But I won't. Not for eons. Just for a bit longer.


	10. A trip to No-man's land

**Author's note:**** Here's the next-to-last chapter :) Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 10: A trip to No-man's land**

* * *

I lied. Back at the non-beginning, I mean – I lied, then. I don't know whether death feels like running really fast. It might. I don't know. It might feel like taking a hot bath, or eating a lot of sugar. It might not feel like anything at all. I don't know. (Unlike Sherlock, I obviously don't have a problem with admitting that _I don't know_ something.)

I don't know, because John Watson doesn't die that day. What an appalling thing for a storyteller to do – lie. Don't hold it against me, though. I can honestly say that I have believed it when I said it. When you joined me, I was stranded in a dark, still place of John Watson's unconsciousness, one that felt mostly like nothing, and just a bit like the number thirteen. Anyone would have mistaken it for the afterlife, really. I had no way of knowing what would happen while I told the story as it unravelled up until that point. Well, while I've been bringing you up to speed, there have been ..._developments_, so now I know what happens...and what happens is John Watson doesn't die that day. Or any other day that has, till now, been entrusted to me and put under my supervision, for that matter. So, I guess I lied out of ignorance, then.

Also, I had to get your attention somehow, in order to tell this story, didn't I? And opening with the impression of an omniscient narrator privy to secrets of death seemed dramatic enough at the time, wouldn't you agree? I promise the lie was a one-time transgression.

Well, even if I am condemned for my conduct, I guess that's a fair price to pay for the chance to tell the story. Because it's not just any story. It's a story about clocks and chemistry and caring. It's _their_ story.

* * *

As previously stated, John doesn't die. He does, however, earn a horrendous headache and some slight chemical burns around his mouth and nose, where the chloroform-soaked dish cloth had been pressed against his face in order to extract his consciousness (for the second time) through intoxicating evaporation. He wakes with a start, on a stretcher in the back of the paramedics' bus. The whiff of scented salt is still lingering around his nostrils when he pushes himself into a sitting position, adamant not to give into the dizziness that threatens to overcome him. The medics try to push him back, but he fights them, so in the end they agree on letting him sit as long as he keeps still.

John pushes himself to the edge of the stretcher, just as Lestrade walks into his field of vision. John's eyes snap to the Detective Inspector, and a word – half a question and half something else (a plea? An invocation?), heavy and rough, like grit on his tongue, grates against his aching ears.

"Sherlock –"

"Is being held down by three very exasperated officers in order to stop him from rushing over here before the medics have done their job on you. And, if I am very lucky, giving his statement to pass the time. He is fine, John."

John lets his eyes flutter closed in relief, but opens them back, quickly, dreading the darkness of closed eyelids. He's had enough darkness in the last few hours. Lestrade is still standing in front of him, eyes worried, but soft as he looks at John.

"How are you feeling?"

"Spectacular." Lestrade just smirks at John's sarcasm and moves to sit next to the army doctor.

"How much do you remember?"

"I remember the new tech – Clemence, was it? – offering me a ride back home. Then he took me here, though I don't remember the entire trip, because he drugged me with something on the way over. I woke up, hanging off a hook like half a dead pig. He told me he killed all those people, and then pretty much told me I was next. I tried to loosen the chains he used on me, but he said he couldn't afford me to be loud, and pressed something against my face...that's all I remember."

Scribbling sounds of Lestrade's pen fill the confined space of the vehicle, until John speaks again.

"He wasn't making much sense...when he was telling me about why he did it, about why he was going to kill me, I mean. He was rambling about time and clocks. I called him mad, and he said he's been called that by doctors before."

"I checked his file – he had a history of mental illness, but since he was on his meds and didn't carry a service weapon, it wasn't a disqualifying factor for his job."

John gives a curt nod, staring pensively at the plastic wrappers littering the floor of the bus. He is just about to replay the whole scene in his head for the fourth time, when Lestrade closes his pad and speaks again.

"Apparently, the bloke drugged you with just enough of the stuff to knock you out, at first. The medics say it shouldn't leave any permanent damage. Later, he used chloroform to get you to black out again. As you said, he didn't want to risk you tipping off anyone by yelling. He was just about to give you the shot – the real deal, this time – when we came in. We gave him fair warning, but he didn't listen, and...well, you know the rest."

"Yeah, I do. Thanks, Greg." It's strange – thanking someone for taking a life. Then again, I am pretty sure John is thanking Lestrade for _saving_ a life – his life. Funny, isn't it? Thanking for one, but not the other, when both are really the same thing, united in a single action.

"What did he ramble about, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Hm?"

"Clemence – what did he say about why he killed all the victims? About why he took you?"

"He said something about stopping their time, how powerful it felt. Then he compared Sherlock to a clock, said he wanted to study him, take him apart. When I asked why, he simply said it was fascinating."

"Now that sounds awfully like...John, you don't think this could be..."

"What?"

"I mean, you don't think this is somehow linked to Moriarty?"

"No." John shakes his head with conviction. "No, this wasn't like that. Moriarty is a sadists, he gets off on other people's suffering. This one, he wasn't like that. I know it sounds strange, but there was no real malice to it all. He didn't do it to see people in pain. He really was fascinated. I don't even think he looked at all of them – at _me_ – as actual people. I think, to him, we were more like bits in a puzzle he enjoyed piecing together."

It isn't until he finishes his account and casts a glance at Lestrade, who is pointedly looking anywhere but at John, that John realises the parallel he has inadvertently drawn. He can read Lestrade's look, which is saying '_Now, who does that sound like?'_, and feels an intense urge to set the record straight.

"He isn't like that, you know."

Lestrade's head whips around, confusion colouring his features.

"Who isn't?"

"Sherlock."

John can see the man's eyes widen a bit, as his expression is torn between shame at being transparent, and offence at being suspected of such doubtful thoughts.

"John, I never said he was."

"No, but your face was saying it pretty loud."

There is a teasing note to John's tone, and the Detective Inspector relaxes.

"He's rubbing off on you."

"Yeah...yeah, I guess he is." There is something in John's tone that makes Lestrade feel as if he is intruding on a private matter, despite the fact that they are the only two people in the bus.

"But really, Greg – he is nothing like that. I mean, he is, somewhat, with the fascination and the inconsiderate behaviour and the inappropriate glee over dead bodies, but he would never do something like this. He forgets himself, most of the time, and I won't lie and say that he cares much for the victims, but at the end of the day, he is nothing like the guy you just had to shoot. He is brilliant and loves a good puzzle, but just look – all he's ever done was help you solve cases. They are nothing like each other, because Sherlock has always been on the side of the good guys. On your side." _On my side_, John thinks, but even that thought isn't completely correct, because John forgets (and we shall forgive him for it – the man _has_ just been drugged, twice, after all, for goodness' sake) that for a while now John's side has been Sherlock's side, as well. So, in the spirit of accuracy, I think the proper thing to say is that Sherlock has always been on _their_ side.

"I know. I never meant to imply –"

"I know" John says, with the slightest of smiles. Lestrade nods, and then stands up.

"Well, I better be off then. This one's going to be hell; I can already feel the pain of staring at paperwork all night long. I'm going to go and tell them they can let Sherlock over. God knows they couldn't keep him down much longer. Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine. Thanks, again."

"Don't mention it."

With that Lestrade steps onto the pavement, waving his hand at someone John can't really see from where he is sitting (probably the poor souls tasked with keeping an agitated [_worried, scared_] Sherlock away from the medics' bus).

John expects a flurry of limbs and coattails to come galloping his way. He expects Sherlock in his full force, and something along the lines of '_Alright? Are you alright?!'_. He expects...well. It doesn't really matter what John expects, because whatever it is, he doesn't get it.

What he gets, instead, is Sherlock approaching him as if there are invisible shackles around his body. There is something almost..._subdued_ about Sherlock's conduct. Restrained, suppressed. Tempered. All things one would rarely (if ever) relate to Sherlock Holmes.

John is still busy trying to work out what is that makes Sherlock so distinctly _unsherlockly_, when Sherlock covers the last of distance and proceeds to speak, back board-straight, hands clasped being him.

"I told you, what brings them down is always a mistake or an anomaly. Straying from the original. He never used chloroform on the others. He always killed them straight away. If he had maintained his usual pattern..." Sherlock's voice seems to dry up abruptly, as he straightens his back even further, eyes flitting down, left, right – anywhere but John. He seems as tense as a wire of his violin, with a current of restlessness evident around him. John just clears his throat, and states the obvious.

"Well. I'm glad he decided I was special enough for him to make an exception."

Sherlock just nods, hands still clasped behind his back. John can almost see the long stretch of no-man's land that is separating them again (_still_), and suddenly he feels so very heavy. His legs are lead and his head is mud, and he can barely move, let alone trudge miles of tension, spoken and unspoken words, and all that fills out the rest of the space.

"The medics say we can go home. They say I'll be fine, as soon as this bloody headache blows over."

Sherlock finally looks back at John, and there is something that seems to shrink the distance between them. John catches a glimpse of something – _relief?_ – and it seems to make the smallest of shifts.

"That's...good."

The stretch of barren land decreases minutely – a single step – but the shift is there, and John feels like it might not be as hard to make the next step, soon. Soon, he might walk, or even run, to Sherlock's side, and Sherlock to John's. Soon, they might run and meet in the middle – on _their_ side.

Soon, but not just yet.

* * *

**Thank you for reading :) See you tomorrow!**


	11. A good place to stop, this non-ending

**Author's note: Well, here's the last chapter :) Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 11: A good place to stop, this non-ending of theirs (of ours)**

* * *

I wish I could tell you they run to the flat and feel the thrill of a horizontal fall. I'm very tempted to, seeing as it would make for such a good plot device. You wouldn't know the difference if I did, wouldn't know whether I told you the truth or not, but I promised not to lie to you again. So, no – they don't run to the flat. They don't get caught up in a muscle-pulling, lung-expanding momentum initiated by their own bodies, no matter how poetic it would be if they did.

They take a cab, for both the obvious reasons (such as John being recently drugged and unconscious, thus being rather unfit for physical exertion that running would include, and the flat being 6 kilometres away from the crime scene), and for those less obvious ones. The less obvious reasons are really a multitude of ragged threads of thought, united into a single cord of heterogeneous tension. The cord seems to bind their bodies, just like all those watch chains, restricting their movements and making it impossible for them to run. It conducts the tension right into their muscles, paralyzing them into immobility. Thank the universe for motorised vehicles.

The flat is dark and cold when they enter it. There is an instant before Sherlock flicks the lights on when they just stand at the threshold, the tension cord winding tight, and stare blindly into the space they cannot really make out in the shade. They are about to step into domesticity while still tied up by invisible bounds, held hostage in their own home by their own words. Maybe the darkness would help make it easier, allow them to hide from the words and the cord and each other. Maybe it would, and maybe it wouldn't, but as Sherlock turns one the light, the possibility to know for certain is erased. They move from the door, John going about the hearth to start a fire, and Sherlock walking to the window.

The air is laden with unresolved issues, with heavy emotions weighing down on their heads, but John can't deal with those right now. He knows Sherlock is highly unlikely to be the one to start the discussion, so if he doesn't either, maybe tonight can just pass without...just pass. Tonight needs to be over, and when morning comes all the words will still be there, brimming and demanding to be spoken – a short delay won't change that. He is fumbling through all the words that whirl in his head, trying to reconstruct their previous altercation, but there are only fragmented sentences forming some sort of sludge in his mind. He needs something simple, something clear and uncomplicated, to take his mind off of everything. The sludge will be there tomorrow, waiting to be pushed through.

John reaches to take a women's magazine off a pile on the coffee table (and doesn't even try to reason _why_ exactly there is a pile of women's magazines in a flat inhabited by two distinctly male residents). He thumbs through it, hoping desperately for a distraction hidden in the repetitive movement of flipping the pages and the run-of-the-mill articles about this and that. After the events of the last 48 hours, he just needs a distraction, no matter how banal. He can still smell the storage unit on himself – it smells of wet concrete and terror. There are still echoes of clocks ticking and Sherlock yelling his name, resonating in John's mind, and he needs something to be louder than the echoes. When written words fail to silence them, he tries to drown them out with his own voice.

"These magazines are ridiculous... Look at this quiz, 'What is your inner animal?' – really? Who are these intended for? Twelve-year-olds?"

It's a pathetic attempt at creating an illusion of normalcy, and knows it, but can't be bothered to try harder. Sherlock finally turns and looks at him. John can see the decision-making process taking place – play along with John's pretence or let it fall flat? Playing along would be the merciful thing to do.

"_For whom_, not _who for_. And I fail to see how they are any different from the crap telly you are so insistent on watching. Both are equally simple-mindedly constructed sources of what is supposed to pass as entertainment, but only serves to further lower one's intellect."

_Thank you, Sherlock._

"So why do you have them, then?"

"They provided useful insight for a case some time ago. You weren't here for it; it was that week you were off at Harry's."

"The one with the urban night scene killings?"

"Precisely. If I recall correctly, you dubbed that one 'Clubbed at the Club'"

Sherlock's gaze tells John everything he needs to know about his flatmates opinion on his little word play, but Sherlock feels the need (of course he does) to voice his thoughts, all the same.

"Really John, it's as an unimaginative title as it is in poor taste."

Recovering from his initial disbelief over _Sherlock Holmes_ lecturing him about propriety and things being in poor taste, John tries to reel the conversation back in, circling back to his original line of inquiry.

"So, what animal did you get?"

He tries to make his tone sound teasing (and given the circumstances, should at least get credit for trying), and hopes Sherlock continues to play along.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I didn't actually take the quiz. Just because I use witless publications as data sources, it does not mean I lower myself to the level of such trivial frivolities."

Sherlock doesn't seem to be entertained by this conversation, to say the least, but John is thankful he keeps it up, anyway. He can see the tension surrounding the detective, and he knows it's not a product of being accused of reading women's magazines. John is not the only one imbued with echoes and smells that force unwanted reminiscence upon him.

"No need to get defensive, I was just being curious. Although, now that I think about it, it is pretty obvious what your result would be."

Sherlock's face stays impassive as he raises one eyebrow at John, challenging him.

"This ought to be inspired... Enlighten me, please."

John can't help but smirk at the condescending tone. There is something about it that overrides the echoes.

"A peacock. For obvious reasons."

"If you are referring to the fact that peacocks show off their feathers, thus drawing a parallel between such behaviour and that of my own, where I display my mental prowess, then your reasons are invalid. Peacocks display their feathers as part of courtship, with the final aim being finding a mate with which to breed. I, on the other hand, while admittedly a show-off, am most certainly not one for the purpose of attracting a sexual partner."

"So why do you show off, then?"

"Because I can."

John barks out a laugh, reflexively, thankful for the fact that some things never change. It is a distorted, raspy sound that should be considered an insult to his real laughter, were it not for the fact that the alternative is a scream or a howl, making this poor excuse of a laugh the best available option. He needs a reminder that there is still something to tether him back to his life, when he feels as if he is running high on chloroform and stale adrenalin, stranded in a limbo that is both here and now, but also hours ago in another place. For all of those reasons, to John, Sherlock's blatant lack of modesty seems like the man's greatest virtue, just then. He is just about to think of a reply, when Sherlock decides he should have his share in the fun (well...maybe _fun_ is not the most fortunate term).

"My turn."

"Sorry?"

"It is my turn to assign you an animal most fitting to your personality. You've had your say, so I think it is only fair that I get to reciprocate. Although, I doubt it can really be categorised as reciprocity, seeing as your choice was a rather mismatched one, while mine will be spot-on."

Deciding to ignore the obvious jab, John leans back in his chair and settles in for a lecture. There is an edge to Sherlock's voice, and not a humorous one at that, and it makes John wonder where this conversation is leading. It makes the sludge of past accusations seem like a highly likely destination. John can already feel the mud seeping in.

"Okay then...reciprocates away."

He doesn't really care if Sherlock compares him to a slug. As long as he is talking, the echoes in John's head lose their morbid power, retreating in the face of Sherlock's rapid concession of words.

"A Lesser Flamingo."

John might not care about the comparison, but he can't help being caught completely off-guard by this one. As if he expected to be anything other than surprised. Expected surprise – a paradox made possible only when one lives with Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"A flamingo, John. Lesser Flamingo, to be precise. It is a large –"

"Yes, yes, I know what a flamingo is, thank you very much. What I meant was, _why_ is it, exactly, that I remind you of a large, pink bird? Is this revenge for the peacock comment? Because –" He tries to force lightness into the discourse, bullying it into something bearing semblance of their usual banter, but Sherlock's impatient retort intrudes upon his desperate attempts.

"No, it is not. It is simply an accurate comparison based on the fact that you share a great variety of characteristics with this particular species." There is a forcefulness in the way Sherlock speaks – as if it is of vital importance that John understands what he is trying to tell him.

"There is a lake in Northern Tanzania, called Lake Natron. Its salt and sodium bicarbonate content is extremely high, and its pH falls in the range between 9 and 10.5, making the water extremely alkaline. The environment is inhospitable, to say the least, seeing as the temperatures in the water rise up to 41 degrees Celsius. The conditions are also highly volatile, changing with the weather, without a moment's notice, when the alkaline water of the lake is mixed with the slightly acidic rainwater. The mud planes surrounding the lake are a barrier for most mammals, and with strong winds, low biodiversity and general hostility of the place, this lake seems suitable only for several species of highly-resistant algae.

However, despite all this, it is the primary breeding spot in Africa for Lesser Flamingos, a near-threatened species. Despite its hostility the lake provides them with what they need to thrive – food, and protection against predators, which are fairly scarce considering the environment. They not only survive in a place deemed uninhabitable by other animals, but thrive in it. They are rare, as is their breeding sight, and together with it they form an amazing ecosystem, full of peril, but sustaining life, all the same.

Much alike the Lesser Flamingos, you, John, live in an environment most people would consider positively hazardous, and yet – you thrive in it. Your everyday is filled with things which can in no uncertain terms be labelled "dangerous", from decaying flesh in vicinity of food, to regular exposure to gunfire. Considering my lifestyle, and thus, but association, yours, it is highly unlikely either of us will reach the age which constitutes for average life expectancy of a white British male. You are constantly at the verge of extinction, and oddly, your environment is as dangerous as the dangers it keeps at bay. You are at greater risk of a violent death, but at the same time, this makes death of sheer boredom and aimlessness all that less probable."

John stares, dumb-struck, as he comprehends the full accuracy of Sherlock's words. Sherlock is his alkaline lake – volatile and hostile for others, but for John inexplicably perfect – corroding away the dangers that come with John's mind being left to its own devices in a world that will forever be slightly foreign to the ex-soldier. Even now, Sherlock is proving essential, with his words, despite their solemnity, fending off the assault of resonating horrors so recently experienced. It's not a metaphor, nor is it poetic – it's just a comparison, painfully accurate; a translation from one context into another, used to prove a point.

John is snapped out of his musings, as Sherlock continues to speak, apparently coming to the grand finale of his list of things that make John a Lesser Flamingo.

"Of course, then there is the greatest calamity."

"And what would that be?"

"Me."

By this point, all the joking levity John clung to throughout the evening, seems to have been lost in alkaline water full of soda ash. Still, when Sherlock designates himself as the most perilous component of John's life, the air takes on a whole new kind of gravity.

"Sherlock, you can't possibly think this – any of this – is your fault..."

John doesn't manage to finish his thought before Sherlock's frustrated scowl cuts it short.

"Of course I don't think that. It is idiotic to feel guilt over someone else's misdoings. It wasn't _I_ that abducted you. And seeing as I was not the person killing the victims, nor was I in any way contributing to their deaths, I do not hold myself responsible for any of that, either. His obsession with me might have served as motivation, but it could have easily been anyone. So no – I do not consider the killings to be my fault. The only things for which I claim responsibility are my own failures regarding the recent events, and those suffice to provide quite enough of that for which I may feel responsible."

"And what failures might that be?" There is disbelief in John's voice, mixed together with firm resolution to convince Sherlock he is wrong – concerning what, exactly, John doesn't know yet, but whatever Sherlock has convinced himself of being culpable for, John is decided to exonerate him of it. He is in no way under the illusion that Sherlock Holmes is infallible, but to have Sherlock so acutely aware and _admitting_ to this fact, is rather disconcerting.

"To name one – letting emotion obscure my thinking, thus unnecessarily prolonging the time you were held captive. That seems like as good a place to start as any."

Despite all his adamant avoidance of the sludge, John is mercilessly thrown right into the deepest part of the word-swamp he was so eager on giving a wide berth. So much for the delay.

"_Caring_? Is that it? You're saying that you failed because you _cared_ about what happened to me? I thought we already agreed to disagree about this particular topic."

"No, John, not just caring about what happened to you –_ caring_ _about you_. And, surprisingly enough, I have no interest in revisiting our previous discussion. I am simply stating that this particular case proves my point – caring is of no use in crime-solving. If anything, it is a hindrance. I was afraid, and the fear didn't serve as a catalyst. Emotion is the greatest enemy to a clear mind, and I need my mind to be clear, John. It is of the utmost importance."

"Sherlock...I've told you my opinion on this, told you why caring matters, and you've told me yours about why it doesn't. You have solved dozens of cases, and you never cared. The only reason why caring became an issue in the first place is because I brought it up, first with Moriarty, and then again a few weeks ago. And you never cared this much about not caring.

I mean, you've always stood by your decision not to, but it was never such an issue, at least not to you. Why is it so important now? Is it because of the fact that you still managed to solve a case _despite_ caring? Is it because it showed that not caring might not be as important as you think? Sherlock, you're not at fault for _caring_, it's not a crime that you did."

"Don't you understand, John?! It is _because _I cared, this time, that it was so crucial that I didn't. Don't you see? If there were ever a time demanding of me to be at my best, then it was when it was _your _life hanging in the balance. Caring, in cases such as those which are our business, inevitably leads to fear, which consequently leads to reduced abilities to function at the highest possible level. Had there not been the need for me to waste time and energy trying to subdue my emotions in order to be able to think, I could have solved the mystery much more quickly. If it hadn't been for the fear, I could have found you sooner. Not caring, and thus not _fearing_, was never as vital as it was yesterday, because never before has my not caring been the single, most important prerequisite for not losing that for which I cared. Or more precisely, _who_ I cared for. What good would caring for you do, if it lead to me losing you? So, you see, you were right, before– caring does make a difference, after all. It is a dangerous impediment."

Finishing his rampant monologue, Sherlock picks up his violin, wielding the bow like a sword. The discordant sounds that permeate the space, in wake of these proceedings, make John feel as if the bow is being rasped against his very nerves, instead of violin strings. He knows Sherlock needs this, needs to pour out some of the fear out and into the tones (John wouldn't really go as far as to call unmelodious rummaging through the scales music), but the screeching is bordering on unbearable, and John knows this is not how things should be left. When Sherlock persists on continuing what could easily be considered a torture technique, John pushes himself out of his chair and takes a step towards the frantic performer. He wants to say '_But you found me in time, anyway'_, but he knows that would be the wrong thing to say. It would be wrong, because they both know how closely things came to it being untrue. He doesn't want to hear Sherlock say '_I almost didn't_', because then the echoes would adopt Sherlock's voice, and he can't have that. So instead, he takes a different approach, his first order of business dealing with getting Sherlock to stop slicing the air with screaming fiddling.

"Sherlock, could you give it a rest, please?"

Luckily for John, he is still good three steps away from Sherlock when the latter turns around in a way so abrupt that he would have certainly cause John to trip over, had he been any closer.

"What do you suggest I do then, John?"

Sherlock is looming over him, all inharmonious tones and tense muscles. John sees determination which is really something else (_fear, that's what it is. Fear; name it – take away its power)_, in Sherlock's eyes, and knows what is about to happen. He recognises the tension – it is a hybrid between that caused by fear, and another, endlessly more complicated one (_name it? How? No way to take away its power_). They are teetering on the tightly strung cord, which is shivering under the stress of their combined fear, and reverberating with the haunting echoes that seem to surround them more vividly than ever, just then. He knows what Sherlock's instincts are telling him (just as he knows how hard Sherlock is fighting the said instincts, trying to ignore their advice) – to grasp onto the only thing that may serve as support on this unstable stretch of string that is lulling beneath his feet. Grasp onto the one solid thing within arm's reach, the same one that shook the line in the first place, in a way. Grasp onto John.

John knows what Sherlock's instincts are telling him, because John's are saying the same. Only, there is a small part saying '_Not like this. Not when it is fuelled by fear and desperation. Not when it's an urge, instead of a decision.' _John knows which part to listen to.

One of the side-effects of Sherlock's "divorce" from his emotions is that, when he fails to distance himself completely (as is only inevitable), he is much less practiced in dealing with them then someone who embraces their feelings. John knows from experience what happens when Sherlock is forced to face his emotions, especially fear. He has seen it happen once already, in front of another fire place, sitting in a different armchair. Then, fuelled by fear, both that of seeing an impossible apparition and of actually _feeling_, Sherlock lost control – an occurrence that lead to one of rare apologies ever to cross the threshold of the detective's lips. So, John knows what happens when Sherlock gets scared – he says (and does) things he doesn't mean. And this cannot be that. _John_ cannot be that.

Sherlock is still standing in front of him, the tension coiling around his body equal to that of rosined hairs strung across the violin bow, which hangs loose from his fingers. Sherlock's sword of equine hair, his last line of defence, now a placid parallel with his thigh. Whatever it is that Sherlock is feeling, be it fear or something infinitely more frightening than that, it has won. Or perhaps, Sherlock surrendered. John likes to think there was an armistice, that Sherlock has made peace with this imaginary enemy comprised of immeasurable, indefinable entities. Either way, Sherlock isn't fighting anymore, he is simply waiting to find out what awaits him now. He is waiting for a verdict...or instructions.

'_What do you suggest I do then, John?'_ _Tell me what to do, John. _John knows the choice is his.

"Let's play Cluedo."

The tremors threatening to overthrow them abate, as relief grabs one side of the line and disappointment the other, holding it in tight grasps and stilling it. Relief and disappointment – such dissimilar emotions, yet there is a common undercurrent tying them together, like rivulets fuelled by the same flow, as both include release of tension. The shaking tightrope, on which Sherlock and John are balancing, slowly comes to a standstill. Sherlock doesn't snap, seeing as the tension curling around him is lifted; he simply seems to sag a bit, as he accepts John's answer.

"I thought you have sworn never to play Cluedo with me again. Something about rules, was it?"

There are no clocks ticking anymore, no ominous passing of time that requires urgency, and John relies on that fact. He relies on the fact that they have the luxury of time and, more importantly, of choice. It is for that reason that the disappointment is unwarranted, and John wants Sherlock to know that.

"We can make our own rules."

_Not like this. Not when it's dictated by residue of chemicals and fear and nearly-averted loss. Not now, but later. Not when you might regret it. Soon. On our own terms. _

_We can make our own rules._

* * *

They play Cluedo for the better part of the night. They go through five rounds before they quit. They change the rules so that it is possible for the victim to have done it. It's a ridiculous, simplified board game version of their everyday life, really. Murders and culprits and clues, all on a cardboard surface, with little pieces of plastic, ones that cannot lie, or deceive, with a victim that cannot bleed, and is resurrected time after time, just to be sacrificed again.

Obviously, it's nothing like real life, really, but it is refreshing to see the murder always solved, the culprit discovered, without exception. No unsolved cases, no looming threats of escaped villains. Once, it's Miss Scarlett in the ballroom, with a lead pipe. Another time, it's professor Plum, with a dagger, in the conservatory. Two times after that Sherlock proclaims it a suicide. The last time, it's Mrs. White, with a candlestick, in the study. Sherlock wins four out of five times.

Somewhere in the middle of the second round, John starts talking. He talks about all the times caring made a difference – not as a _dangerous impediment_ (as Sherlock has so eloquently put it), but as a vital catalyst. He talks about all sorts of things – some mundane and some life-altering.

He reminds Sherlock about the time Mrs. Hudson came up to check on Sherlock (because she _cares_ for him), only to find him asleep dangerously close to his still-burning Bunsen burner, and proceeded to turn it off. He talks about the time Lestrade sat on Sherlock's deerstalker to hide it, when Donovan was pestering Sherlock about wearing it at a press conference (because he knew how much it irked Sherlock and he _cares_). John fills the spaces between throws of dice with examples, anecdotes and proof.

Lastly, he talks about the warehouse and the ticking clocks. He tells Sherlock how caring mattered in that moment when he was trapped in the darkness of his unconscious mind, how it had a voice. He tells him that caring sounded awfully like a certain annoying Consulting Detective, telling him to _stop this_, and how in the end he listened to it, and woke up. Of course, Sherlock quips up to contradict him, saying how this is not proof, seeing as John would have, most likely, woken up either way, so it doesn't really matter if John _cared_ about waking up.

_Oh, Sherlock_, _can't you see?_ If caring is a felony of which one can be found guilty, as Sherlock has painted it to be, then John is Sherlock's partner in crime. That is why John tells Sherlock that it wasn't caring whether he woke up or not that he was referring to, just now.

He had to wake up, because he had to make sure Sherlock would eat and sleep and not get himself in trouble, as he usually does. He had to ensure Sherlock was reminded of so many things, not the least of which being the fact that caring is not a fault. He had to wake up to tell him he understands. He had to wake up, because he cares _for Sherlock_. The darkness was comfortably numb, and he wouldn't have minded staying there, where nothing hurt and nothing bothered him, really, apart from the caring, which made waking up imperative. Sherlock can say what he wants, but John knows that caring made a difference then, because it was the thing that made him _want to_ wake up.

By the time they finish the fifth round, and John's speech draws to a close, something has changed – they have stepped off the tightrope, and onto solid ground. As John puts the Cluedo board aside, Sherlock picks up his violin once again. This time, when he starts playing, the music is a diametrical opposite of that which screeched its way through the flat just hours ago. It is a strange melody, but undoubtedly charming. There is an alternation of straightforward parts and those more intricate. It is a unique mixture of simplicity and flourish, of things that shouldn't sound good together, but do so anyway – exception to the rule. John sits back in front of the fire, listening, and smiles. It is as if they are playing a sixth round of the game, and this time it is ever more apparent that they are playing by their own rules. The victim is fear. The culprits – Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, in the lounge, with a violin bow and a smile. They both win that round.

The dishwater-coloured light of early autumn morning seeps into the room – it is another a cold, misty October morning. Well, I might not have known at the time that the weather of that first day would prove to be of any importance, but it is just as well that I took the time to describe it, if only because it makes for such a lovely circular narrative. The weather that adorns the last moments of our story, closely mimics the one which welcomed us into it. It might not be important (I told you I didn't know if it would be), but it is sort of poetic, and makes up for the poeticism lost earlier, when our duo of protagonists couldn't run to the flat, but had to be driven, instead. It is some sort of poetic (and maybe slightly ironic) that the weather should be the same on the day they lose their steady, bottom-line happiness, and the day when they gain it back.

As Sherlock finishes his tune, turning to dispose of the violin, John gets up to stoke the fire, which has long ago dwindled to embers. When both men turn back towards each other, seemingly washed clean by the grey light, there is a different sort of tension between them. They are no longer standing on a line suspended in mid-air, grasping onto each other under the threat of an abyss below. Now, on solid ground made of wooden panels, standing only slightly apart, they reach out – not because they fear a fall, but because they dislike the distance. This tension is something pleasant, like anticipation, like hope. As the last of the distance is eliminated, the tension uncoils, while at the same time managing to coil ever so tighter. Another paradox. An impossibility transpiring, just then, among plastic murderers and silly magazines. It's who they are: an extraordinary impossibility among everyday pieces.

The hated distance is quickly being committed to memory, and within the time it takes to draw a breath, they meet in the middle of it. It's who they are: a memory of a distance being erased and a history of steps taken on various surfaces, from tightropes to wooden floors, always in the same direction – towards each other.

They are bright, emitting light like burning magnesium. They are reactive, combining like hydrogen and oxygen to form water – salty, corrosive water, red and fuming – but it's who they are: an alkaline lake and an endangered species thriving on the lake's abrasive nature.

It's a chemical reaction and an ecosystem. It's a decision, one that goes unregretted. It's a moment of echoless quiet. It's that moment when a time zone is crossed, and clocks stop ticking in order for time to be altered. It's an agreement pertaining to a discussion held three times. It's two men who are very, ridicolously lucky.

It's all that, but first and foremost, it is a kiss - and what a _caring_ one, at that.

* * *

Have you ever run so fast that you felt as if, after a while, you were being propelled simply by the gained momentum, no longer truly in control of your movements? Have you ever run like that? Have you ever felt like that? If you have – good, then you know what I'm talking about.

Hold on to that memory.

Remember that feeling, because that is _exactly_ how this kiss feels.

It's endless momentum – exhilarating horizontal falling. It's who they are.

Perpetual motion.

* * *

I could tell you about what comes after the kiss. I could tell you what else these two are, about other cords that bind them, and all the games of Cluedo they play after that first, very special one. I could tell you about the time John finally finds the right animal to which to compare Sherlock, and about the way Sherlock refuses to admit to how fitting the comparison is. I could tell you when they finally stop calling whatever it is that comprises their new cords "caring" and call it something else – call it what it is – because _caring_ becomes (_always has been_) inadequate, too weak. I could tell you what they call it instead, but I won't, because if it is left unnamed then its power can't be taken away (although, I would like to see the force that could take away the power of this unnamed thing, even if I were to name it – I doubt there is such a force).

I could tell you so much more and still not tell you everything, because their story hasn't ended. It is still unfurling, and I'm still here to take note of it. I could, and I even might, tell you all of this, some day. But for now, let's stop here – this seems like a good place to stop. Just like there are no real beginnings to a story, there are also no real endings. There are only good places at which to stop, and good things with which to do so. So, let's stop with a kiss – let's be like time, standing still while they are moving fast around us.

This is a good place to stop – standing still among perpetual motion.

* * *

**A big thank you to everyone who stuck with this story, I hope you've enjoyed :)**


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